Meant to be Alone
by Yoko Hogawa
Summary: In a world in which people are born with the name of their Soulmate "tattooed" on the left ring finger, John and Sherlock live two special and opposite situations. While the first is forced to hide his name in order to not be discriminated, the second is totally lacking of one. In differen ways, they both believe to be destined to be alone. Untill they meet. [SoulBond!AU]
1. Ch1 Adagio

So. This is my first attempt at translating my fanfictions from Italian into English. And for this I have to thank my beta reader, Zylstra, a fantastic person who has corrected all my errors. Thanks a lot 3  
This is the first (long) chapter. Hope you like it!

* * *

**Chapter 1  
**_**Adagio**_

• From an interview with Dr. Joseph C. Williams, professor of Molecular and Cellular Biology at the University of Michigan, for _Nature_:

**I: Can you explain in layman's terms what a Soulmate is?**

J.C.W.: In common terms, a "Soulmate" is the person, male or female, who's destined to be our perfect half, the person most suited for us under each profile. More precisely, it's the person whose name is tattooed on our left ring fingers since birth.  
In technical terms, it's called "SIN".

**I: And what is a SIN?**

J.C.W.: SIN stands for "Soulbond Identification Name". It's a bureaucratic classification method, like a National Insurance Number or a Social Security Number. It's recorded privately at five years age, at which it begins to become fully visible on the skin.

**I: What is a Bond?**

J.C.W.: A "Bond" is the encounter between two predestined Soulmates. It's triggered by a simple skin-to-skin contact, such as a handshake, which activates a chemical reaction within certain brain centres. It manifests itself as a small, low voltage electric discharge, perceived only marginally from the epidermis, but often identified as a shiver or a muscle spasm. This contact activates, indeed, the Bond, which is a kind of chemical and biological co-dependency that increases with time and closeness. Similarly, it may also decrease with separation but it never disappears completely.

**I: What are the Bond's effects?**

J.C.W.: The most common effects are undoubtedly emotional inclinations toward the other person. Protection, affection, sense of belonging. In cases of deeper Bonds, an increase of psychic potential has also been identified, such as mutual understanding and profound empathy. This sometimes escalates to a genuine "psychic exchange" in which one component of the pair is able to feel pain felt by the other.

**I: Is there a scientific explanation for this phenomenon?**

J.C.W.: Currently, there's no proper scientific explanation, just hypotheses that, unfortunately, are not leading to appreciable results. This is partly because each Bond is different for each couple, and partly because pairs who reach this stage of bonding are very few. At the moment, we only know the name that appears on the left ring finger is formed by pigmented cells and whether the colour becomes lighter or darker is directly proportional to the Bond's intensity. The pigment is haematic, so it increases and decreases on a scale of red, from pink to burgundy. It becomes black in widowhood and disappears a few hours after death. Regarding the formation of the Bond, the most common assumptions are those regarding the release of a particular hormone in the body that reacts to the other person's odour but hormone measurement tests give inconclusive results. Some radical scientists speculate that some changes occur at the DNA or Messenger RNA level, but in my opinion it's exaggerated speculation.  
I believe the DNA mutation occurred when the first SINs began to appear, centuries ago.

**I: How does science explains the fact that a Bond is formed exactly with the person whose name is engraved on the finger? How does our body figure out who is the most appropriate person for us?**

J.C.W.: Again, I can only reply on a purely theoretical level.  
Some theories point the finger toward Fate, saying that the name appearing on our fingers at birth is simply the result of a statistic "lottery" among names most commonly used in recent centuries. In this example, we only try to form stable ties with people who hold the name that we happened to have by chance, not being concerned to find others with different names. However, purely mathematical and statistic theories as such do not explain the Bond and the whole process that lies behind.  
I'm afraid this may be one of those things that science cannot explain.

**I: Are there exceptions to the appearance of SIN?**

J.C.W.: Yes, there are. Some people do not develop a name on their skin at all. These individuals are called "Bondless" or "Born Without Bond". There are also people who do _have_ a name on their finger but it presents itself as a constantly open and bleeding wound, like an incision on the skin. Individuals of this type are commonly referred to as "BCE" which stands for "Broken Connection Entity", even if popular culture has recently coined the derogatory term "Ribbon" derived from a malapropism of "Rejected Bound".  
In both instances, a Bond's normal chemical reaction does not take place.

**I: Have there have been cases where a Bondless has managed to develop a Bond, or a BCE whose wound has healed and the Bond restored?**

J.C.W.: Not as yet, or if they have they are unavailable in historical documentation.

• From the book _Society of Bond_ by Rajat Nara, Sociologist of Deviance, New Delhi; chapter 3 "Commonly accepted social changes and new minorities".

"_The large-scale change in human societies after the Bond's appearance is impressive._  
_Suppose, for example, to have to do a superficial social analysis, omitting the specific change variables and focusing only on the basic operation of Society. It can be said that any social group, and it's valid today as it was in the past, works based on a specific set of constructs commonly accepted by all members of the community. These constructs define Morality – completely different the religious morality, be it clear – of the social group._  
_Analyzing artefacts and historical records researchers all around the world have established that the advent of Bond and what we nowadays call "Soulbond Identification Name" (SIN) originated a radical change of common Moral and, as a result, even of those groups sociologically defined "deviants" that formed the so-called minorities._  
_In a society where normality is displayed by having a Soulmate's name on the finger (since so it is for the 85% of world population) of course minority groups are identified in Bondless and BCE._  
_In addition, specific distinctions are made within these very sub-groups._  
_Statistical studies carried out on the world prison population have revealed alarming data on the percentage of BCE inside prisons, 70% of which is sentenced to life imprisonment or accused of serious crimes like murder, multiple homicide or serial killing. Publication of these results has caused, as domino effect, a general mistrust of these individuals who find themselves having problems with simple things like admission to University or find rewarding jobs._  
_On the other hand, the appearance of SINs and Bonds has caused a change in the people's mindset, leading to the disappearance of social issues such as homophobia, xenophobia and sexism."_

• From online forum "Words in the Wind":

**JasMine90:** This entire Ribbon thing disturbs me a lot, I must say. Have you heard there are more and more of them? All those Broken Bonds aren't normal! The people who decide to ignore their own SIN have to be responsible for them.

**Arabesque:**_ JasMine90_ nowadays, the obligation of getting together with our SIN is old fashioned. It's like not having sex before marriage, archaic! SINs are not a replacement for free will... I mean, you meet your SIN's person, hang out with him/her a couple of times, then if you don't like them you don't touch them and don't create the Bond. Simple as that.

**Cactus742:**_ JasMine90 Arabesque_ look, the SIN isn't like choosing a yogurt at the supermarket fridge! And yours are the words of a not-yet-bonded person. There's a reason most people still come together with their Soulmates. I can understand there are situations, such as domestic violence and abuse, which push couples apart... or even when two Soulmates fail to meet before a certain age... However it has nothing to do with Ribbons.

**JasMine90:**_ Cactus742_ it's also written in many books that to not bond to one's SIN in the long run leads to permanently breakage of the Bond over the death-and-rebirth cycle. I'm not making this up.

**Cactus742:**_ JasMine90_ I never said you were making things up. But your perspective is very Church-and-family. Church with a capital C.

**CumbaGirl:** I don't want a bunch of melanin on my finger to decide who'll be the companion for the rest of my life.

**Cactus742:**_ CumbaGirl_ wait until you meet him/her and we'll speak again.

• From the conference of Giancarlo Bellini, professor of Theology at the University "La Sapienza", Rome.

"_All religions of the world represent the Bond as something unique and meaningful to the belief itself, but at the same time seem to agree on one thing only: the Bond is something unbreakable, a thread that ties two souls in the cycle of birth/death/rebirth._  
_Isn't it comforting to know you can face death without losing track of your beloved one? Many people find peace in knowing that even in the next life, their soul mate will be alongside them, albeit under a different name or different appearance. The binds that connect the souls become so unbreakable, according to some religious cults, that the souls can even meld together. Many believers of many religions argue that stronger Bonds, those who develop psychic and empathic connections, aren't merely the evolution of two souls that have become one through different life cycles, but a spiritual union of senses and bodies. A total union lasting from one lifetime to another._  
_Of course, as a result, these Bonds are (for them) something sacred. You must not break them._  
_Many cults in fact prohibit practiced creed to BCE and Bondless."_

.o0o.

A concerned Violet and Siger Holmes were on the phone with their paediatrician when they hadn't seen any name appear on little Sherlock's left ring finger by his fifth birthday.  
At that age, Mycroft, their eldest son already had his SIN fully visible.  
"Don't worry, Mrs. Holmes," Dr. Abbott had said, however. "Some children develop a SIN so pale that it stays pretty much invisible throughout the fifth year of age. The deadline for registration is on the child's sixth birthday, so there's still time."  
He had sounded reassuring with his calm, steady doctor-voice, but when Sherlock's sixth birthday arrived and there was still no trace of his SIN, the doctor had to run a contrast-enhanced ultrasound on the boy in order to confirm whether or not there was a SIN present at all. It was strange for it to stay under the skin after the sixth birthday, but wouldn't be the only case in the world so everything was still possible. And hope was always the last to die.  
But his voice was much less reassuring when he told the Holmeses, one of the wealthiest families of Essex, that the youngest of the house had no name on his finger and, consequently, he had the obligation to officially register him as Born Without Bond.  
Violet wasn't happy about having a Bondless in her (otherwise perfect) family tree.

Jonathan and Margaret Watson were on the phone, concerned, with their paediatrician the third night in which little John couldn't sleep due to an inexplicable pain in his left hand. There was only a small red speckle on the ring finger but they believed it was completely normal. After all, the child was just 4, it was probably the skin that was beginning to darken and then form the name.  
Even Harriett, their eldest daughter, had felt a little pain during the formation of her SIN. These things happened.  
But doctor's voice was not at all reassuring when he ordered them to take the boy to hospital as soon as possible, despite being close to midnight.  
They left home in a hurry, bringing John still in his pyjamas. Upon arrival at the hospital, the doctor had him sit on the table while he studied the child's hand closely with a magnifying glass, focusing on the red speckle that coloured his left ring finger.  
With a broken-hearted sigh, he took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "He's a BCE," he told the two parents, who sought in every way to calm John's wailing. "And an early one, at that. I can already see his SIN under the inflamed skin. The hand hurts because there's an ongoing infection. The name will appear within the next two weeks or so. It'll also begin to bleed. I'll give you some anti-inflammatory meds to reduce the pain and antibiotics to calm the infection but..." He trailed off, shaking his head.  
Margaret embraced her child, the first lights of dawn on the horizon.  
A lifetime as a BCE wasn't exactly what she had in mind for her little blond angel.

.o0o.

Sherlock observed silently as his brother received the little red velvet box containing the silver ring that marked his transition to adulthood. His mother smiled, his father pounded a hand on his eldest son's shoulder and the invited guests applauded respectfully.  
Sherlock wrinkled his lips, sinking even more in the sofa at the other end of the hall.  
The silver ring was more a social symbol than a real utility. It replaced the coloured metal ring which was worn in childhood to cover the SIN, and it literally meant "in search". He would wear it until he found his Soulmate or until his marriage, when it would be replaced by a gold wedding ring.  
He'd never understood the need to follow this practice exactly, but it was tradition. And from a family like theirs, with social relationships and obligations in every part of Essex, a certain "adherence to standards" was expected.  
Obviously, this concept didn't apply to him. Sherlock didn't need to wear any ring at all, so he had to learn these things from books (rather than from his mother, as Mycroft did). He was 11 but he thoroughly understood that their mother preferred Mycroft to him.  
And it wasn't hard to see why.  
"Aren't you going to wish your brother a happy birthday?"  
His father's warm baritone arrived barely a moment before the firm hand on his shoulder and Sherlock snorted. "No," he replied simply.  
"Why?" asked Siger Holmes with a calm and almost amused tone.  
"Because," answered Sherlock, covering unconsciously his left hand with his right.  
Sherlock could have inherited his incredible intelligence from his mother but he'd certainly learned the art of observation from his father.  
"You don't want to because you don't have a SIN like him?" asked the man.  
Sherlock shook his head. "I don't care," he responded quickly but frowned in irritation.  
Siger squeezed the hand on his son's shoulder. "I'm sure, however, that Mycroft would appreciate it. You know he loves you, even if he doesn't say it too often. He has the same character as your mother."  
"He doesn't care for me," answered however Sherlock, closing himself off even more. "Even mum doesn't." He folded his arms across his chest.  
Siger sighed sadly. "Don't say that even as a joke, Sherlock. I assure you it's not like that."  
"Yes, it is," insisted the child. "I see them, dad. It's because I am... different." The last word was a choked murmur.  
This time, Siger hesitated before resuming. They both observed as Mycroft receive hugs and congratulations from all the guests under Violet's clearly proud and happy gaze, who didn't miss a chance to brag about her son's school career and the equally bright future that awaited him.  
"You see, Sherlock," began his father then, "your mother follows a very... puritanical creed. She's one of those people who believes that the Bond is the only true union between two people and any union outside the one between Soulmates is immoral. Consequently, she's also part of a group of people who believe that families of nobility, like ours, are responsible for keeping their family tree perfect – in other words, composed only of legitimate unions and spurious of... dead branches." He explained everything calmly, watching his wife from afar and never removing his hand from his son's shoulder. "Conditions like yours are foreseeable developments of evolution, Sherlock. Although rare, they are completely normal. It's just that certain people, no matter how intelligent, on certain topics struggle to see past the tip of their nose."  
Sherlock had never heard his father give opinions so sincere about his mother and, above all, he hadn't ever done it in confidence with him. He turned his curly head in his father's direction, who responded to his gaze at him with a smile.  
"Now, go congratulate to your brother. Tonight I'll tell you about Chinese sea pirates," said Siger, igniting in Sherlock a sparkle of excitement in anticipation of a new tale about pirates.

John's mother had repeated many times that eavesdropping was wrong, but this time it wasn't on purpose.  
He just had to go to the kitchen to get a glass of water because his hand hurt so, so bad. He couldn't sleep – his finger burned and the gauze patch he wore was already blood-stained – and Harry had threatened to paint his face in his sleep with permanent markers if he didn't stay silent.  
Usually, his parents were already in bed at this hour but that wasn't a problem. Although he was 8, John was used to changing the patch alone and recognising from the labels which were the pills his mother gave him when his hand was hurting. He was also able to reach the glasses in the cupboard – by moving a chair and standing on it – so he didn't really need help from his parents or from his sister.  
But that night, as he made his way downstairs, the kitchen light was on and the door was closed. His parents' voices came from inside, muffled but audible, and standing in front of the door with his left hand to chest he couldn't help but hear what they were saying.  
"_It's not his fault, Jonathan," _his mother was saying with an earnest but controlled voice.  
"_Of course it isn't. But this is the third school that's rejected his enrolment. There must be a damn reason, because it can't be just because he's a Ribbon. He's just a boy, for fuck's sake!"_ John started at the swear word – 'cause you can't say bad words!  
"_Don't talk about him like that,"_ his mother immediately intervened.  
"_...BCE,"_ corrected the man.  
A loaded silence filled the kitchen and John, standing in the hallway, held his breath in fear of making too much noise. If they found him out, he'd be scolded.  
"_What are the alternatives?"_ asked his mother after what seemed like a century.  
"_The school in town. Perhaps there'll be fewer problems."_  
"_It's an hour roundtrip, Jonathan."_  
"_I'll accompany him until he's old enough to take the bus alone."_  
"_We don't even know if they're going to accept him..."_  
"_We must try. We don't have the money for a private school, Maggie."_  
"_I know..."_  
"_Look, Harriett goes into her second year of middle school this year. We can make her change schools so she can go with her brother and you could just drop them to and pick them up from the bus stop. What do you think?"_  
"_But what about her friends, darling? Harry's been with them since nursery school..."_  
"_It's the only way if we want to send John to school. I don't want to put my son on a bad road – he's already destined to walk one of those."_  
"_John's not destined to walk any bad road!"_ shouted his mother, and John jumped at the abrupt change of tone. _"Stop talking like hose twopenny scientist on the telly. Your son isn't a criminal, he hasn't done anything!"_ she cried.  
"_But he could become one, Maggie; you should seriously consider this opportunity! He's a Ribbon, and you know very well yourself that most of them aren't going to end well! Problems with school are only a small part of what we'll have to face in the future; you've got to come to terms with it!"_  
"_I told you not to call him that!"_  
The quarrel went on but John didn't listen further. He understood maybe half of what his parents were saying but that was more than enough.  
He went up the stairs in silence, eyes filled with tears that threatened to fall down his cheeks, and despite the sharp pain in his hand and his desperate thirst, he took refuge among his bed clothes, sinking his face in the pillow.  
It was not his fault he was different.  
It wasn't his fault.

Sherlock locked himself in the bathroom the night his father died, refusing to open the door even when Mycroft began to pound on it loudly.  
He opened the shower jet and slipped under the water fully clothed, ignoring how utterly _freezing_ it was. He sat on the floor of the bathtub and, with a horsehair sponge, began to rub the skin of the left ring finger.  
He rubbed with all the strength he had, scrubbing, scratching until it started to bleed. "Come out... come out!" he prayed with broken voice, silent tears of sadness turning into a hysterical cry of anger and pain.  
"Come out!" he cried in despair but among the scratches, his finger was clean.  
He couldn't remain a Bondless, not anymore. Not without his father.  
His mother would send him away, to a boarding school. He had heard her talking about it to his father one night, and even if Mycroft told him it wasn't true and that he would take care of the matter, his mother had free reign without his father to prohibit even the very idea.  
He didn't want to leave. It wasn't his fault if that damn name simply wasn't appearing.  
It wasn't his fault.  
John bundled himself away in the bathroom the night his father moved out, hiding under the sink with the disinfectant bottle and his box of patches. He didn't lock the door because no one was even looking for him. His mother was too destroyed to take care of him, and Harry was just too angry.  
He had a fever, but only a slight one and he'd learned to ignore it by now. The doctor had told him that the wound on his finger could often become infected and give him a bit of fever. In the end, it was at least once a month.  
He let a few tears slide silently down his cheeks while carefully removing the patch from his finger, struggling where one side was glued to the other. As always, his SIN was covered with dried blood so using a cotton ball soaked in disinfectant, he cleaned it back to clarity. The name always bled and always hurt, but today more than ever it was there, painfully present, alive and red, like a curse.  
The wound in the shape of "Sherlock": that was the cause of all this. John's father and mother had quarrelled every night for more than a year, and now his father had gone; Harry had to change schools to accompany him in town and now she wasn't pretty much speaking to him either.  
All because he was different.  
It was all his fault.

.o0o.

At school, Sherlock's female classmates spent whole days talking about how their encounter with their Soulmates would be.  
They imagined themselves in situations worthy of the worst soap opera or romantic comedy ever filmed. Long, understanding gazes with the new guy at the other end of the class, an excited tingling at the thought that he might be the right "Jack", the one whose name lay cherry red under their pink metal ring. After long walks and laughter, finally he would take her hand. There'd be the positive shock and the feel of the Bond beginning to form, sweet kiss at sunset, marriage, six drooling kids and they lived happily ever after.  
They were all the same. They were nauseating.  
The men's side of the story was no different, except they preferred a more "physical" approach. Hearing their conversations, they all seemed destined to marry a Playboy's model with prosperous breast and perpetually in a swimsuit. He certainly wouldn't be the one to tell them that most of the planet's female population didn't have Barbie's features, unless they underwent surgery and used gallons of hair colour. Ridiculous.  
He had no such problems. Having neither a name nor a ring to cover it, he'd the immense fortune of not having to lower himself to his classmates' level, which was the purest form of human stupidity.  
Although…  
Sometimes – just _sometimes_ – he tried to imagine what it would be like to have a SIN.  
To be like everyone else. The times in which his classmates had better things to do than tease the _freak_ (that's what they called him from over their shoulders, loudly enough for him to hear), he was left alone to spend afternoons in the Chemistry lab, skipping unnecessary and repetitive lessons. To hell with the Dean's warning, his more than excellent grade point average was the perfect excuse to devote his time to more instructive things.  
He was almost sure his SIN, if he had one, would be a male name. His 16 years of experience were more than enough for him to understand that he couldn't bear females and their unpredictable mood changes. He didn't quite feel physical repulsion; he hadn't felt anything, in fact, the times he'd experienced kisses or more intimate forms of contact with girls and boys who weren't preoccupied of SINs and social rules. His (modest) appreciation of either gender was on an intellectual level, and intellectually speaking, he couldn't stand girls. So, a man.  
That man would be less intelligent than him but still above average. Competition only excited him from a certain point of view and he wouldn't have appreciated a high competitiveness with the person with whom (according to social logic) he'd spend the rest of his life with. He couldn't possibly appreciate a person who he'd eventually have to outsmart, especially after outsmarting the person. They'd completely lose attraction. Those were enemies, not Soulmates.  
The man wouldn't be squeamish and he wouldn't be bothered by his experiments.  
Sherlock imagined a man with a strong character, because Sherlock would become a detective and his partner couldn't possibly lag behind or lament action. Indeed, he almost desired him to be action-addicted. Yes.  
The physical aspect wasn't overly important. The man could hardly be taller than him – Sherlock was already very tall for his age – and would be British (although the latter was more a personal preference).  
The reality, however, was that he could imagine any person, any name, but none of them would ever have been at his side. He was a Bondless, a Born Without Bond, which meant only one thing.  
It was his destiny to be alone.

John had soon realized that if he wanted to avoid troubles, he had to lie.  
His mother had bought him a green metal ring, identical to all of this classmates, wide enough to cover a good portion of skin. Or a band-aid.  
John spent at least two days per week with the scissors, cutting off the sides of all patches in his possession to adjust them to the ring's width. Unfortunately, he had to change the patches several times a day since the blood stained them quickly. He had to be sure no one saw, especially at school. He usually went out during class, asking to go to the bathroom and locking himself in a cubicle to take off the ring and quickly change the patch.  
Many times it wasn't enough – he also needed disinfectant, especially on bad days when the wound hurt more due to infection – but he had to manage with what he had.  
Teachers were aware of John's condition and never asked, but his classmates were unaware and hopefully would remain that way. For his own good.  
Avoiding answering questions was much less difficult.  
The SIN was a private topic that many preferred not to discuss, unless on a hypothetical level. Those who refused to confide their SIN to someone else weren't looked at with suspicion, but with a silent understanding. For some people, the SIN was a very intimate thing and John's was no different.  
Except for him, it was more than intimate – it was dangerous. Only once he'd made the mistake of entrusting his secret to someone else: at primary school he'd told it to his best friend but the boy got scared and ran weeping toward the teacher.  
The boy never spoke to John again, nor had approached him, and some time later, John's father had received a phone call that said John could no longer attend that school due to some parents' complaints. It was useless to explain that he hadn't done anything (nothing wrong, at the very least), and his father knew it. It was simply the path Ribbons walked and although Jonathan strove to accept it, in the end the stress became too much.  
Alcohol and delusion go together nicely. Alcohol and a family of four, a little less.  
Since his father had left, John swore he would no longer cause trouble to anyone. Or, if he did, he'd solve them alone. His and Harry's mother was a very capable woman but with two children to raise, she already had too much on her mind. She didn't deserved the hassles that, without fail, he as a Ribbon would bring home. So John concealed, pretended, lied. It wasn't a problem.  
His lies were the reason he had a lot of friends (unaware of his SIN status), had had some girlfriends (also unaware), was part of a rugby team with a capable coach (again, unaware) and looked with apprehension into modules for University selection (for many Ribbons, it was difficult even finishing high school, let alone going to University).  
But as well as he'd endured his lies, for 17 years John had seen shadows and obstacles around every corner.  
He tried to be a model student but it wasn't unusual for him to be involved in fights of some sort, even with older blokes. His sister, despite her acid words about the criminal he'd surely become, had begun to booze and had left college before even starting it, bringinghome problems John managed to leave outside the door. Yet another failure – not having passed the third job interview – did nothing but increase her anger.  
She refused to be reasonable and drank instead.  
One evening, she drank too much. She ended up in hospital just a few steps from ethylic coma and John, who went to her bedside in the middle of the night to save his mother the view, looked at her from the room's door with resentment.  
People like Harry Watson didn't deserve to have a Soulmate.

On his eighteenth birthday Sherlock didn't receive a silver ring.  
There was no party with no guests and no cake. His mother just wished him happy birthday and gave him a kiss on the forehead; his brother sent him a package from London that he didn't even bother to open.  
He didn't feel at home in that house anymore. His place among those walls gradually faded after his father's death and after an adolescence spent away from home as long as he could, and in his room for the remaining time, he was increasingly convinced about it.  
He was aware that his mother couldn't stand his presence although she didn't show it. Probably her maternal instinct was strong, despite everything, or maybe she struggled against the social rules of the mother's role, but they didn't prevent her from seeing her younger son for no more than 20 minutes a day. Mycroft was the only one who tried at least to have dinner with him, but since he'd left to attend University, Sherlock had spent years dining alone with the only company of the evening news.  
It couldn't be said that hatred wasn't mutual.  
Sherlock's world was enclosed within the four walls of his room amid vials of distilled sap from toxic plants and framed butterflies masterfully captured, finding in Chemistry the friend he never had. A family too indifferent and classmates too ignorant for not being able to see the fact that he was different from others, yes, but also _more free_ than anyone else.  
He had no ties, no obligations, and his fate blowing in the wind. He wouldn't be tied to anyone, wouldn't have to share his life and his mind with anyone and if was that the price of freedom, it wasn't a sacrifice. Far from it.  
If he was meant to be alone, all the better.

On the day of his eighteenth birthday John received a blue velvet box from his mother, containing his personal silver ring.  
She'd chosen one slightly wider than normal – in order to cover the patch – but all things considered it was fine and elegant, classic. She'd also engraved his initials (J.H.W. on top, in cursive script) and was the best gift John had ever received.  
He knew his mother had spent more than she could afford on that ring, but seeing the happiness in her eyes John didn't have heart to complain. After Harry had left home permanently, living in London to search for "Clara" (that was the official reason, at least), seeing his mother smile could make John's day.  
"It doesn't exactly fit its role," Margaret told him, taking his face in her hands and kissing his cheek. "It'll never be a real Search for you, I'm afraid. But I wanted you to feel like everyone else, because you're not different. You don't deserve to be less loved than everyone else. You're a lovely boy, John, and those who have bias against BCEs are wrong."  
John smiled in return, hugging her and immediately changing the ring. He avoided showing the woman the patch which had already been stained in blood for far too long, and soon it was perfectly covered by the silver ring, which slipped like water over his left ring finger.  
"It's perfect mum, thank you," thanked John, sitting at the table while she turned to pull the cake from the oven.  
Days like these were the ones which repaid him for all his struggles and made him forget the anger and hatred he felt for "Sherlock", who was able to make his life a living hell.

.o0o.

Victor had violinist's hands.  
Thin, tapered fingers, neat nails and a delicate touch. He handled everything as well as he played the violin: with elegance and absolute kindness. Flipping through the pages of a book, pulling a cigarette from the pack... if elegance had a name, it would be Victor Trevor.  
What Sherlock liked, though, was that Victor never treated him with the same delicacy as everyone else did. Indeed, the exact opposite.  
Because Victor may have had gentle hands but his music was passionate and ferocious.  
The first time they met, Victor was playing Mozart, the first movement of the _Violin Concerto No.3_. From the skill with which he was performing, Sherlock had quickly realized that he would never be able to play anything below an _Allegro_ with the same virtuosity. Victor's hands were made for accuracy and speed.  
And, Sherlock admitted later, to touch his skin.  
Temperamentally Victor was the opposite of him. Cheerful and extroverted, he was so sociable that very few people on campus didn't know who he was. A physics student, not a model one but with very high grades, he was an example of the middle-class family boy who succeeded effortlessly to find a place in life. Good looking, his blue eyes and curly copper-blond hair made him the centre of attention of both women and men.  
But Victor liked strange things, and that is why he got to know Sherlock.  
Obviously Sherlock was not lacking of rumours about himself inside the campus. Rumours that mostly regarded his small argument with the Organic Chemistry professor, of whom Sherlock rectified almost half of the lesson (and he was even right).  
It'd been Victor to approach him first and, despite the fact Sherlock initially didn't want to know a thing about him, over time he started to find his company pleasant in a strange way. In a physical way, he realized later.  
There weren't many things Sherlock appreciated in Victor – outside of music and the man's innate passion for troubles – but the one thing he liked the most was that he didn't have any kind of prejudice and didn't support social convention. SINs included.  
He hadn't made any secret of his SIN with Sherlock: "Chris". Just as he hadn't made jokes or strange faces when he discovered for sure what all the university already whispered: that Sherlock was a Bondless. He simply smiled – a sly smile – and he stretched a foot under the table to touch Sherlock's ankle.  
So it was in that way Sherlock, in his second year of Chemistry at King's College, discovered sex's pleasant side through the hands of a violinist and physicist named Victor Trevor.  
Both liked to experience – they were students of Chemistry and Physics, it was inevitable – and sex was no exception. Sometimes it was fast and dirty, sometimes preceded by slow and exciting foreplay, and sometimes it was followed by languid kisses leading inevitably to a second round. But that's all it ever was between them: sex.  
Although Victor didn't believe in social conventions related to SINs (like not having sex with anyone other except your Soulmate, for example) he was convinced that "Chris" was the only person who he'd ever truly love and put it straight with anyone he had intercourse with.  
Sherlock didn't care. Sex with Victor was pleasant, without obligations and was able to distract him from his overloaded brain for a while, so it was more than enough. He'd go so far to say that they were friends; the "with benefits" was just a useful addition.

Victor's bed's nets squeaked loudly during the last thrusts, at the end of which he joined Sherlock in an orgasm that left them both exhausted. Victor still wore his shirt and socks and Sherlock his button-down shirt, and before pulling out of him to lie down, Victor pressed a kiss to Sherlock's neck. Sherlock didn't reciprocate in any way.  
They breathed deeply – out of sync – for a few minutes before Victor sat with his back against the headboard, stretching toward the nightstand's drawer and pulling out a box of Kleenex. He took a couple and started to clean himself a bit before handing the box over to Sherlock, who made the same gesture.  
Once finished, always silent, Victor reached for cigarettes and put two of them between his lips. Sherlock observed in a glance his smooth and harmonious fingers using the lighter and the rise of his chest when he inhaled the first puff of smoke. Once they were lighted, Victor passed one to Sherlock, who took it with silent gratitude.  
Nicotine was even better after sex.  
"You weren't in your room yesterday," Victor stated, blowing out a cloud of grey smoke into the half-lit room, illuminated only by the campus' night garden lamps. "I hoped to spend the night with you..." he dropped in the obviousness of meaning.  
"You just did," Sherlock answered, dropping the ash in the ashtray that Victor had managed to balance on his thigh.  
But Victor didn't fall for it. "That's not what I mean, Sherlock".  
"Be more accurate then, Victor," he retorted.  
Sherlock knew what he wanted to get at; for that reason he wasn't too astonished when the other man quickly grabbed his left arm, unbuttoning the cuff and rapidly pulling the shirtsleeve up past the elbow. A series of red pinholes, some even livid, marked his pale skin.  
"Am I accurate enough now?" asked Victor sarcastically, slightly shaking the arm as if to emphasize his words. "What's it this time? Cocaine again? I thought that time was just an experiment. Do you know how dangerous this is?" He spoke non-stop with an expression somewhere between anger and concern on his face.  
Sherlock, taking his arm from Victor's hands, took a breath. "Cocaine. Benzoylmethylecgonine. IUPAC name: methyl-3-benzoyloxy-8-methyl-8-azabicyclo-octane-2 -carboxylate. Formula C17H21NO4. Alkaloid. Hepatic metabolism, 1 hour half-life. Maximum dose between 1 and 1.5 milligrams per kilogram of weig–"  
"Okay, all right, stop! You did your homework. What do you want to prove?" Victor, still angry, interrupted him.  
Sherlock continued to stare at the ceiling. "That I'm fully conscious of what I'm doing, Victor. There's no way the situation will get out of control and you know full well that in terms of hygiene I'm impeccable," he explained.  
Victor frowned. "Yes, you are," he had to admit. "But this doesn't mean I like it," he added in a bitter tone, returning to smoking his cigarette.  
Sherlock remained silent for several minutes, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the cigarette consuming itself between his fingers. Only after some minutes he broke the silence.  
"It helps," he said.  
Victor, squashing the stub in the ashtray, glanced at him. "Helps what?" he asked.  
"The chaos," replied Sherlock. "In here." He raised his hands to tap his index fingers to his temples.  
He could almost see Victor frowning even without looking directly at him. "Sorry, Sherlock, but I don't get it," he said, confused.  
Sherlock sighed. "Indeed..." he said, squashing his stub and turning onto his side, back towards Victor. If fate had wanted Victor to _understand_, he would have Victor's name tattooed on his ring finger.

John had already realized that the summons by Professor Hardman, Professor of Medical Oncology, wasn't closely related to the curriculum or the exam planned for the following week. It also wasn't related to his scholarship, surely, since his good grades fulfilled the requirements for maintaining it throughout the academic year. His school career was all right.  
He thought about what else could be as he waited in the hallway, standing next to the window facing the interior courtyard. He could think of nothing.  
Excluding everything else, there remained only _one thing_. He hoped that this summoning was not for what he feared it was. He really hoped so.  
"Come in, Watson," he heard the professor call.  
John, taking a deep breath, went in and closed the door behind him.  
Hardman wasn't certainly a young man, but to be responsible of a chair in London University he certainly wasn't so old. He was 65 and right as rain, probably thanks to the healthy lifestyle that only a zealous doctor is able to keep up with constantly. (Sometimes, John saw him jogging early in the morning, passing the University entrance.) His greying, thick hair was neatly combed to a three-quarter line on the right and his eyes, of a particular green colour, hadn't lost their attractiveness behind the thick lenses of his glasses. Seated at his desk, he pointed at one of the two chairs placed in front of it. John sat with a short nod.  
Hardman sighed, placing aside the papers he'd been reading and rubbing his nose with two fingers. One look was enough for John to realize that the open dossier between them on the mahogany desk was his own.  
John swallowed silently while the professor tried to find the appropriate words.  
"You know, John," he began, "Before becoming professor, I was a practicing physician, so I gave a lot of bad news to a lot of people. They say that to be an oncologist, you can't feel too much empathy toward a patient, but in reality it's not exactly possible. Empathy is needed when you tell a man that he's slowly dying and his body is quickly betraying him." He took a short break before continuing. "I hope you'll understand if I allow myself to present to you the issue the University Council showed me only yesterday that affects you."  
That was not at all comforting. The Council fully gathered only to discuss important cases, which most often regarded a sure expulsion.  
_They know_, John began to think without being able to stop himself. _They know, they know, they know._  
Unconsciously, he picked at the silver ring with the thumb.  
"Your enrolment application was brought to my attention, as well as to the Council's. Initially, I couldn't see anything wrong: the format was properly completed, the admission test passed with excellent grades, the application for scholarship was accepted with no problems. In my eyes, you were a perfect Medical student even on paper. Then I saw this..." Hardman put in front of John a paper marked with General Register Office's watermark. It was a photocopy but a blue ink stamp and the officer's signature labelled it as a recognized copy.  
Just one line was highlighted in yellow:

_**S.I.N.: Broken Connection Entity (Sherlock)**_

John didn't say a word (_They know_).  
Hardman sighed. "You've been unlucky. London University rarely does such radical controls on students. But given the new statistics published about BCEs, this year we've adopted more thorough methods," he explained.  
John stayed completely silent. He stared at that damn yellow highlighted line and hoped, in his heart, that some sort of Karma would return to "Sherlock" after the twenty-three years full of shit he'd endured.  
After a few moments, the professor spoke. "I must ask you to remove your ring, John".  
He was expecting it but he felt blood freezing in his veins regardless. He'd felt guilty as soon as he'd ticked the 'SIN positive – in search' slot on the application form, four years earlier. He had just hoped that the repercussions on his pride wouldn't be as terrible as he mentally painted.  
But it was even worse. John removed the ring from his finger, ashamed like a thief sentenced to the electric chair, who wanted to apologize but simply couldn't. He straightened his left hand toward Professor Hardman, white patch in plain sight, but didn't even try to look up to see the reaction.  
The gesture was greeted by silence.  
"I must hurt..." muttered Hardman eventually, and John was astonished to hear a note of regret in his voice.  
_It depends on what you mean_, John immediately thought, but his actual answer was different. "Endlessly," he whispered.  
"Do you take painkillers?" asked the professor.  
Watson nodded. "I alternate Paracetamol and Ibuprofen. Nimesulide when there's an ongoing infection," he replied.  
Hardman nodded. "Why did you lie, John?"  
John didn't answer right away. He tried to find the right words not to look like a poor victim, but from his point of view he simply didn't have an argument like that. He opted for sincerity.  
"When I was a kid, one of my classmates told the teacher that his mother had told him a beautiful thing, the previous evening. 'Matt, if you want something and fight for it, you can do anything'. I think every parent says more or less the same words to their kid, at least once in their lifetime," John said. "My mother never did. Not because she wasn't thoughtful, rather because she didn't want to deceive me. Truth is, even if I give my all, no matter how badly I want it, I can't do what I want all because of _this_." He raised his left hand.  
He looked up to meet to meet the eyes of the oncologist who watched him intently, fingers interlocked and pressed to his lips, elbow on the desk.  
"I wanted to become a doctor because it's a noble profession," John continued. "If I cured people and did it well, maybe they'd stop judging me and start to recognize my merits. Without excuses, without distinctions, without doubts. But there are very few, if any at all, faculties open for Ribbons and Medicine is not offered at any of them. I lied to have a chance. A chance that all normal people have," he said, voice now full of anger.  
The professor couldn't say anything because John continued talking, eyes thinned by resentment.  
"Newspapers do nothing but shoot the mouths off Ribbons, claiming that crime has increased due to them. Public opinion is so focused on the statistics that avoid listing how many crimes are committed by people who _aren't_ Ribbons, and trust me when I say that there are many – I counted them. We're looked at with suspicion just because of these figures, but try to walk in our shoes. Try to grow up knowing that the name on your finger, the one that never ceases to bleed and hurt, is proof of the fact that the only person who would've truly loved you decided to refuse you. And you don't even know when, exactly, or why. Try to imagine what it means to feel alone in the midst of a crowd. We grow up like that. Even worse: we grow up under the wary gaze of others, constantly bombarded by the words, 'I'm sorry but you can't.' No wonder by the time we turn 30 – _if_ we turn 30 – we desire not only to see the world on fire, but to feed flames with gasoline." He ended his speech, clenching his teeth to prevent wrath dominating him completely. He'd closed his fists and now his fingernails were leaving deep furrows on his palms.  
The professor said nothing for long minutes but observed him carefully. Maybe he was searching for the right words, but they didn't exist. They had never existed.  
Only facts mattered, and Hardman relied on those.  
"John, this University will recognize the years of studying you have undertaken and all the exams already taken," he said.  
John, caught off guard, widened his eyes.  
Hardman continued. "Unfortunately, however, I cannot change the rules. The Dean has already given to the order to certify your expulsion, but I managed to persuade the Council to recognize what you'd earned. You're one of my best students and one of the best in the whole class – I don't care whether you're a BCE or not. You earned those grades by giving your best as much as everyone else, perhaps more. Therefore, you deserve them."  
John gasped, undecided on what to say, but the oncologist beat him to it.  
"London University will recognize your four years of study as a prize to the perseverance and devotion you've demonstrated. All your exams will be assured, although we'll be adding a note of demerit for misrepresentation on the admission form. As long..." He hesitated. "As long as you continue your studies at the Military Academy," he finished finally.  
John frowned, a doubtful expression on his face. "In the Army?" he asked, dazed.  
Hardman nodded. "The RAMC doesn't discriminate. If you're deemed worthy to protect Queen and Country, you become a soldier like anyone else. The medical practice, although limited to first-aid surgery, is open to anyone who has the prerequisites to learn and put that knowledge into practice on the battlefield. And you possess those prerequisites," he said.  
It was a well-known tale that the Army didn't care about SIN status – how could they, with an ongoing war in the Middle East? – and so the RAMC eventually ended up being the last free port for Ribbons, Bondless and the few who really wanted a military career. Of course, Hardman's clarification was more of an order than a piece of advice: no other universities would admit John despite his certified four years, after all.  
In the end, John nodded and accepted the offer. At the very least, he hoped as a soldier he could be useful.  
And if indeed there was a God, he would catch a bullet between the eyes as soon as possible.

.o0o.

Sherlock wanted to go further.  
Exceed limits.  
Experiments could be dangerous but discoveries, the true ones, always had their share of risk. Every great scientist had crossed the line, the boundary between common sense and the unknown; those risks were what made them great.  
This wasn't exactly an experiment. He wasn't trying to prove anything. He was trying to find a remedy for boredom, tedium, every little thing that haunted him. The past he'd left behind, a present without a concrete form. A future he couldn't clearly see. It was a silent escape.  
It was adrenaline, blood, bliss. One hour of pure, absolute perfection. It was like pins in the brain, needles that stimulated the right points, obfuscating concepts without substance, opening his eyes on a reality he already saw better than others, allowing him to see into the depths of it, to understand the structure supporting it. Everything just by using a hypodermic syringe and a tourniquet.  
It was in a mere moment he realized that maybe something was awry, when he perhaps regretted the choice to neglect doses, to try those few extra milligrams so as to be able to bear that little bit more so he could penetrate the very meaning of everything down to the atoms that composed them.  
He could see his finger's skin melt and leave the bones uncovered. Felt the pain of the invisible acid eroding it. Could hear even the sound, the sizzle, the smell of cooked meat, human flesh. He screamed and groaned but the acid didn't stop: it advanced, eating layers of skin and flesh, first on the wrists then on the arms...  
Hallucinations, a part of his brain was able to tell him. Visual, auditory, olfactory. Probably the last two were an extreme attempt of his brain to compensate for the sensory hyper-stimulation. Side effects caused by the psychotropic substance injected only moments before. On the intravenous fast track, shot straight to the brain.  
He realized he'd overdosed only when he opened his eyes and saw the drape of a four-poster bed.  
"I didn't believe you could fall so far."  
A voice came from the right facing the window, watching the night sky near dawn. He recognized the place from the smell and the voice from its tone.  
"Mycroft..." he croaked, throat dry and sore.  
Mycroft gave no indication of hearing him. "I wanted to believe that leaving the University without graduating, after passing all exams with perfect grades, was the end of your 'rebellious age'," he said. "I wanted to trust that it was enough revenge and that your occasional work as consultant for Detective Inspector Lestrade was sufficient to catalyze your goodwill. It seems I was wrong."  
After a moment of silence, he added, "I worry about you, Sherlock".  
Sherlock didn't answer except for an ironic chuckle.  
Mycroft ignored his reaction and everything it could mean. "You're under close surveillance from today onward. You'll stay here until you've completed the rehabilitation therapy. Your medicines are on the nightstand."  
With that, Mycroft Holmes in only his shirt and dressing gown, left the window and walked straight toward the door. He stopped in the doorway, looking at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye.  
"I do care about you, Sherlock. Whether you believe it or not," he said, exiting and closing the door behind him.  
Sherlock, turning on his side, closed his exhausted eyes and sighed.  
Who knew why he couldn't believe it.

He barely made it in time to find an empty cubicle.  
John threw up everything he ate with violent stomach and throat spasms, and he had to cling to the bowl due to severe dizziness. His dog tags clinked together between his skin and the t-shirt's green fabric, wet with cold sweat.  
He heard the door open just before another retch wracked him again.  
"Are you all right, Doc?" Lieutenant Tony Monroe's voice barely echoed in the empty room, acquiring an almost metallic note.  
John spat, then flushed the toilet and sat on the ground, his back against the cubicle's plastic wall. He suddenly felt forceless.  
"Yes... yes, I'm fine," John replied, laying his hands on his thighs. "Must have been the traditional Afghan food."  
He heard the other man leaning against the wall beside the door, waiting. "We've eaten that stuff every day for years and it never bothered you before. Seems to me more like an Echo." The Lieutenant used the quiet tone of a person who knew what he was talking about.  
John rolled his eyes under closed eyelids.  
It was called "Echo": the special ability of a Bonded couple to perceive strong feelings of one another. In the event that one of the two had a serious accident, or fell ill to a serious disease, or in any way faced a situation of great physical suffering, the other individual suffered side effects, most often nausea or fever.  
"It's rare. And you know that's impossible for me," replied John, holding his breath at another wave of nausea.  
"Who knows?" answered the other man, and John could almost hear him shrug.  
"It _scientifically_ cannot be," stated John. "You should know, you're a Bondless."  
"Hey, even if I don't have a name on my finger, I believe in love, dude." He answered and John shook his head listening to the invective he began, saying that if the Bond is true it remains unbreakable despite time and appearances.  
"You've got a name on your finger after all, so it's not totally impossible," said Monroe.  
John sighed, his eyes closed. "It's a hollow shell, Monroe. It's impossible."

.o0o.

Pain, like a tidal wave, came only afterwards, when John was already on the ground.  
It came from the shoulder and expanded across his chest making his arms shiver and his head peal. He could afford one rattled moan because the pain was just too much, not allowing him the air to even scream.  
Funny. He'd seen many soldiers with gunshot wounds before but not a single one_neglected_to empty their lungs in screams that ranged from delusional to hysterical and all shades in between.  
He'd die in silence. All the better.  
"Watson!"  
John felt the sand beneath him, voices and screams and wailing all around, gunfire, mortars and sub-machine guns. All far, distant, muffled. Drops of cold sweat streamed down his temples and stuck the uniform to skin – where there wasn't already blood to do so.  
"Call the doctor!"  
"Doctor! DOCTOR!"  
"Johnny, Johnny, we're here, stay with us!"  
He wanted to raise his hand to touch the wound, to feel how deep it was, where he'd been hit exactly... he wanted to help the blurry and indistinct people bent over him – his comrades, he knew – to tell them what to do, were to press, to check if he was it in a vital point, if the bullet had passed on the other side, if it was still inside, but large tears were blurring his sight and he was afraid of closing his eyes and not open them ever again…his arm was heavy, his hand was heavy, his head was heavy. He'd lost a lot of blood. Bullet had probably hit the subclavian artery considering how much blood... how much time had passed?  
"Rip it, rip the fabric!"  
"Christ... Jesus Christ, blood's too much..."  
"Monroe, if you feel sick, be it somewhere else!"  
"Hold on Johnny, okay? Doctor's coming, they called a jeep. It'll take you away from here. You'll get out of this hell, I promise, okay?"  
"Jesus... oh, Christ..."  
"Morphine, give me morphine from your emergency kit!"  
People around him were busy, hands dirty with sand and dust pressed hard in his left shoulder, which hurt too fucking much but he couldn't talk, he could barely take small breaths between clenched teeth.  
He didn't want to die but it'd probably end like that. From amidst the increasingly blurry heads, resembling shadows more and more, men who he seemed to know but he couldn't say it for sure, John looked at the sun.  
They always say that when you're dying you can see all your life before your eyes, but John didn't. He thought about absolutely nothing. His life just ceased to exist. There was only one eternal present hold in that endlessly dilated minute hand ticking, and the only thing his brain was really able to form was a supplication:  
_Please, God, let me live._

Sherlock opened his eyes when a cold and violent shiver ran down his back, making his muscles tremble. He recognized the feeling as that annoying, undefined floating of a high fever.  
Sherlock slowly lifted his eyelids further, blinded by police patrol's emergency lights placed exactly in front of the windscreen. He himself seemed to lie on a police car's seat, a bag of ice resting on his forehead and wrapped – with coat and all – in an orange shock blanket.  
He frowned. "One of these again?" he drawled, but without removing it. He was so cold he didn't even care.  
"I always carry one in the trunk," said a voice at his side, from the driver's seat: Lestrade. "How are you feeling?"  
Sherlock ignored the question. "What happened?" he asked instead. The last thing he could remember was a corpse in a side street of Bayswater, nothing more.  
"You fainted," Lestrade informed him, "suddenly, without warning. You stopped during one of your praises of Anderson and the Forensic Division's stupidity and lost consciousness."  
Sherlock groaned, annoyed. "I was fine before," he said.  
"Seemed so to me." Lestrade nodded.  
Sherlock put aside the blanket enough to raise his hand and take the ice bag from his forehead. "The crime scene?"  
"You've collected enough evidence, don't worry. The corpse has already been taken away; Forensics is finishing up the evidence collection."  
Sherlock shook his head, discontent, but the world suddenly turned too quickly for his liking. He had to close his eyes.  
"Aren't you going to ask if I've been using? After all, my brother has elected you as my personal handler, hadn't he?" Sherlock wrinkled his nose in a grimace of disgust to emphasize his words.  
Lestrade sighed. "Listen, I only do what your brother tells me to do. And I'm not you handler. And no, I know you're not taking drugs."  
Sherlock knew right away what he meant. "Ah yes. Did you enjoy having me followed?"  
"I don't care about your privacy during a drug investigation, I'm afraid," retorted Lestrade. "By the way, you sure you feel alright? Do you need to go to A&E?"  
Sherlock frowned and shook his head.  
"Do you know what might have been?" insisted the Yarder.  
"I have two theories," Sherlock began, raising his left hand in front of himself so that he'd see the back of the ring finger, "one of which is impossible."  
Lestrade was not a fool; he understood what Sherlock was referring to. "An Echo?" he asked.  
Sherlock nodded.  
They remained silent for long minutes, each lost in thought, until Lestrade interrupted it.  
"It might be," he said.  
Sherlock's brow rose of its own volition in a look full of scepticism.  
"Legends, you know? Those about Bonds so strong and pure to be unbreakable despite time and appearances. Maybe you have an invisible Bond that transcends ages and reincarnations and now you're suffering from its side effects," he said.  
Sherlock shook his head again. "Don't bore me with that nonsense, Lestrade. I'm a Bondless. No SIN, no connection," he snapped, annoyed. "It's a simple as annoying flu. Now take me home, if you don't mind."  
The Yarder sighed and, preferring silence to an endless discussion, started the engine, driving toward Mycroft's home in which Sherlock was still a guest.  
Looking out the window, Sherlock unwittingly rubbed the back of the left ring finger underneath the blanket.  
No, there was no one out there with his name on their finger. There could be, logically, but he didn't want there to be.  
When you're meant to be alone, rules are rules.

.o0o.

Sometimes it was just _too much_.  
The pressure, the expectations, the disappointment that followed.  
There were too many things to think about, too many problems that afflicted him, too many gazes he noticed now that he wouldn't have noticed before.  
John's hand was shaking. His leg had become, on its own initiative, a completely useless limb. His finger was hurting as if it were to break away from the hand. His shoulder was giving him painful pangs whenever he moved the arm in the wrong way.  
John, now a former soldier having been discarded from RAMC, had been diagnosed with PTSD, regardless of his scepticism towards the diagnosis. He was now a solitary entity who walked through Russell Square without purpose or hope, looking for something he didn't know the shape of, or even what it was.  
An eternal present without any future.  
"John?"  
He had become the personification of uselessness.  
"John Watson?"  
John heard the voice calling his name only after returning from that unreality he was drowning in. He turned towards the man who'd labelled him, who just rose from a bench John hadn't even seen a few moments before, and even if the face was familiar it wasn't enough for him to really understand who he was.  
The other man solved the problem. "Stamford. Mike Stamford, we were at Bart's together."  
That's who he was.  
"Yes, sorry, yes, Mike. Hello." John shook the hand offered by the man in trench coat and glasses. John remembered him now, from a training course during third year.  
He'd gotten fat.  
"Yeah, I know, I got fat."  
Precisely.  
"No, no..." denied John in a breath, patently false, but Mike decided to fly over it.  
Obviously in the wrong direction. "I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?" Mike asked.  
"I got shot," John replied simply: it was obvious and didn't want to add anything else. Mike didn't answer.  
To see again an old friend was still better than wandering around London without the slightest idea of what to do, so they bought coffee and returned to the park bench. It was obvious that Stamford had no idea of what to say – few people really knew what to talk about in front of a former soldier with a limp and the air of someone who'd throw themselves from London Bridge before evening – so it was John who was the one to find something 'harmless' to say.  
"Are you still at Bart's then?"  
"Teaching now. Yeah. Bright, young things like we used to be. God, I hate them!" he joked.  
John chuckled in reflection.  
"What about you, just staying in town until you get yourself sorted?" Mike asked then.  
"Can't afford London on an Army pension."  
"Nah, you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know!" exclaimed Mike, perhaps to make him feel better, perhaps to make a joke.  
Instead, it made John snap, "Yeah, I'm not the John Watson you knew..." He was unable to pronounce the sentence in full and it became an inaudible whisper. His hand trembled again and he opened and closed his fist, hoping that tremors would pass before Stamford noticed.  
The situation was already tense enough without Mike's pity.  
"Couldn't Harry help?"  
John laughed bitterly. "Yeah, like that's gonna happen."  
"I don't know, you could... get a flat share or something?"  
"Oh, come on. Who'd want me for a flatmate?"  
Mike responded with an amused chuckle.  
John frowned. "What?"  
"You're the second person to say that to me today."  
If Watson had been a less curious person, probably he'd have ignored the thing entirely or would have chuckled at the strange coincidence. If he'd been really desperate, he wouldn't have cared less and wouldn't have asked the question that he did, indeed, ask.  
In hindsight, the fact that he'd not yet surrendered had changed everything.  
"Who was the first?"


	2. Ch2 Andante

First of all: sorry for the delay. I'm still very slow in traslating and both me and my beta reader Zylstra (how much can I love that woman?) were occupied with real life for a bit. But now the second chapter is on so... have a nice read! ;D

* * *

**Chapter 2  
****_Andante_**

Sherlock drew the pipette from the reagent's plastic bottle, taking a minimum amount from it. He transferred the plastic tip to the slide, making it drop a drop over the sample – a green paint residue found under the shoes of the victim's brother.

The man claimed it came from a wall that he'd stripped during the renovations of his newly purchased home but Sherlock thought otherwise. The brother was his number one suspect – everything perfectly matched his observations. All the puzzle's pieces were perfectly aligned to form the general framework and this simple chemical experiment would give him the solution he was searching for (and the evidence that Lestrade was looking for).

The reagent soon began to sizzle, causing a reaction with the piece of paint dissolved in the neutral base. While placing the pipette on the table someone knocked and the laboratory's door opened.

Sherlock glanced in the direction of the entrance just to make sure who it was. Using a university lab was inconvenient in that it wasn't his own and it was normal for the legitimate occupants of the building to enter at their own convenience. He couldn't do anything about that.

He had already expected it to be Mike Stamford, and it was, but had expected him to be alone. Instead, he was accompanied by a man (_shorter than average, lame, military-style posture and haircut – wounded in action? Yes, but still too vague. Need more information. Tanned, on vacation? No. On a mission in the Middle East? Too early to tell. Silver ring on the finger, wide enough as craftsmanship, particularly interesting. Normal clothes, used but not crumpled or dirty, middle class, modest income, unemployed_) who he seemed to know.

He focused his attention back towards the slide and moved it with circular movements, watching the reaction occurring. It'd changed colour. Presence of iron, then. The paint didn't come from a wall but from an object with an iron core which had oxidized with time. Like a gate...or a ladder.

Meanwhile, the newcomer stopped at the end of the table, looking around.

"Oh... bit different from my days," he commented.

"You've no idea," replied Mike.

_(Educated at Bart's, doctor, military doctor.)_

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine," said Sherlock sitting, mobile phone in his hand.

"What's wrong with the landline?" asked Stamford in response.

"I prefer to text," he quickly retorted, as if it were obvious. It _was _obvious.

The newcomer watched them in silence. Sherlock observed him out of the corner of his eye.

_(Straight posture, well balanced, he's still standing but not overly relies on the cane and doesn't ask for a chair. Psychosomatic limp?)_

"Sorry, it's in my coat," replied Mike at the same time, making a distracted gesture in the direction of the door. He'd left it in his office, probably, hung in the coat rack along with the above-mentioned coat.

Sherlock was about to snort, annoyed, when the (_former? Of course former_) soldier spoke up.

"Oh, here," he began, extracting the mobile phone from his trousers' pocket, "use mine."

"Oh...thank you," replied Sherlock, standing up and heading towards him.

Mike decided it was a good time for presentations. "He's an old friend of mine, John Watson."

When John handed over the phone, and the shirt sleeve hitched up up due to the movement, Sherlock had to suppress the instinct to raise the right corner of the lips. Now he had the full picture.

_(Military doctor, on a mission in the Middle East, wounded in action but not the leg, psychosomatic limp, almost certainly has a therapist, PTSD. Middle class, unemployed, probably recently discharged from hospital, lives on his army pension. Oh. Seriously, Mike? A flatmate? That's why you brought him here. A risk though: from underneath the ring it can be seen the white rim of a band-aid; he's a BCE. Mike doesn't seem to know. Remarkable that he's been trained at Bart's with that sort of condition.)_

Sherlock took the phone, their fingers touched lightly and, turning it over, began to write the SMS.

_(New model, too expensive for him, he can't afford it. A gift. He has someone who wants to stay in touch. There's an engraving on the back, it can be felt under the fingertips and I was able to read it before turning the phone. "Harry Watson from Clara xxx." The three kisses mean romantic relationship; the cost of the phone was high, suggesting it was from his wife, then. A wife who Harry's left, since he gave the phone to his brother – no sentiment there. The cover is scratched, as well as the charging jack: unstable hands, alcoholic? It's a stab in the dark but it could be. John didn't approve of either, and that is why he won't ask for help. The only doubt left...)_

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

Mike pulled out his crafty expression, as if he'd been expecting that show since he set foot inside the laboratory. Watson seemed simply caught by surprise.

"Sorry?" he asked.

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" specified Sherlock immediately, making it easy to understand and hoping for a quick response that would finally put an end to his chain of reasoning on that man.

The doctor hesitated a few moments, looking at him and then Mike before responding.

"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you...?"

"Ah, Molly! Coffee, thank you." Sherlock interrupted him as he closed the phone and returned it, before grabbing the cup from the coroner who had just entered the room.

"What happened to the lipstick?" he asked Molly.

"It wasn't working for me," she replied, wringing her hands.

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Mouth's too... small now." Returning to sit at the table, he sipped his coffee.

"Okay..." cheeped Molly, leaving the lab.

Placing the cup on the table and starting to write an email on the laboratory's computer, Sherlock decided to move onto practical things.

"How do you feel about the violin?" he asked John.

Mike grinned, obviously pleased.

Watson was silent for a moment. "Sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking," Sherlock explained, speaking directly to John, "and sometimes I don't speak for days on end. Will that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

Watson turned to Stamford, surprised. "Did you... you talked to him about me?"

"Not a word," came the answer.

"Then who said anything about flatmates?"

Sherlock shrugged on his coat. "I did. I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for; now here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Not a difficult leap."

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" asked John, more wary now, almost suspicious. Typical reaction.

Sherlock ignored the question. "I've got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought be able to afford it. Meet me there tomorrow evening at 7 o'clock. Sorry, gotta dash, I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." He checked his phone quickly before stashing it in his pocket and brushing past John, still standing.

"Is that it?" asked the doctor.

Sherlock turned away from the door with a fluid motion. "Is that what?" he asked in turn.

"Well, we just met and we're gonna look at a flat."

Sherlock looked around before responding. "Problem?"

Watson smiled thinly, then shot back, "we don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting, I don't even know your name." The soldier part of him finally came into sight.

He asked for it.

"I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. You've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid. So, that's enough to be going on with, don't you think?"

John Watson's look passed from doubtful to incredulous over the whole speech, the settled into a serious amazement. Sherlock decided that as a demonstration could be enough and turned again, reaching the door for the second time. Except that he stopped and added: "the name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B of Baker Street. After–"

He was interrupted before he could finish the sentence.

" 'Sherlock'? " snapped suddenly Watson, eyebrows frowned in an astonished expression.

Sherlock wasn't perturbed by the reaction. Many times people had raised their eyebrows upon hearing his name, so unusual and old fashioned, and after thirty years he was used at it. What prevented him to give a quick response and fly out of the lab was the expression in the eyes of John Watson, hiding something else behind the surprise, something he couldn't quite define.

But he stopped anyway.

Because it was impossible for John Watson to have his name on his finger underneath that silver band... wasn't it?

"Is there any problem?" Sherlock asked.

A flicker of another expression crossed John's face. "Sorry, it's just an unusual name, that's all." It was gone again just as quickly.

Maybe he was wrong and it was really a reaction due to the strangeness of the name. Maybe.

Sherlock nodded slightly, then again toward Mike and, saluting with a "good afternoon", he finally left the lab.

Interesting, that John Watson.

.o.

John opened the door to the room he'd rented in the military boarding house, closing it behind him absent-mindedly.

His brain was completely empty, as if it'd received an electric shock more powerful than a usual synapse, and it was still in the midst of being restarted again.

_Sherlock_ Holmes.

It couldn't be him, of course. But how many "Sherlock"s existed in Britain? A dozen? And how many under fifty years of age? "Sherlock" wasn't a common or frequently used name, and it certainly wasn't a young man's name.

It was like being reunited with an old classmate who always took the piss out of him, or a teammate who hadn't found a more exciting pastime during adolescence than teasing him. As "Sherlock hovered in the door to the lab, John had felt the instinct to punch him, his left hand itch and the wound on his ring finger burn more than ever.

"_Sherlock",_ his injury flashed and screamed, _"Sherlock" is here. The name at the end of all your nightmares. "Sherlock."_

But John didn't hate him. He had almost been expecting it, the wave of pure resentment to come from his stomach and wash across his chest, climb into his throat and up to the brain. But it didn't happen.

He didn't hate Sherlock Holmes.

Instinct told him that was _him_, but reason insisted that he couldn't prove it. And never could.

John was a BCE and Sherlock a Bondless. Sherlock had no name on his finger, and wore no ring (John had noticed while the man was sending a message with his phone). The rules of Bond didn't apply to them.

For many, it would have been conclusive evidence... in fact all matched the observations and all was so glaringly obvious: a Bondless and a BCE with the Bondless' name engraved on the skin. The refusing and the refused. A funny little comedy that had brought them in front of one another for ten minutes, in which John had been dissected like a frog during a biology lesson.

Was he supposed to be his...flatmate?

John's lips twitched into a sarcastic smirk.

It seemed life wasn't the only pretty bitchy force. Mother Nature (or perhaps nature's angry step-mother) had been as much of a great whore to him and that was it. And it hadn't lost the habit.

Sighing, he pulled the phone out of his pocket, selecting the message icon.

John had asked Stamford exactly who Sherlock Holmes was but the teacher failed to tell him too much. He told him that Holmes was a chemist but never completed university. He had withdrawn after completing all his lessons but before presenting his thesis. His job was to occasionally –and very unofficially – collaborate with the police and, due to some family connection, he had access to Bart's laboratories for analysis.

Practically, it was nothing, the tip of the iceberg. Sherlock Holmes seemed much more and just a glimpse, just listening to him once was enough to figure it out. Sherlock looked like one of those people that could be loved or hated without the luxury of a middle ground. And still, even if he had all the reasons, John didn't hate him.

John opened outbox folder, quickly finding the message typed by Holmes a few hours before and sent to a number which clearly Sherlock knew by memory.

_If the brother has a green ladder, arrest the brother. – SH_

Who was Sherlock Holmes? _What_ was he? Should John show up at Baker Street the next day? Should he let it go and leave things as they were? Should he quit right here, not overstretch fate's belt, disappear from Sherlock Holmes' life making Sherlock himself disappear from his own just as he'd entered it?

Without putting the mobile phone back in his pocket, John grabbed his cane and limped to his desk. Then he turned on the PC, connected it to Internet and opened Google.

And in the search bar typed "Sherlock Holmes".

.o0o.

The Chinese restaurant, Royal China, at 23 Baker Street [1] was a large place with many tables and curtains made of heavy red fabric. On the walls, sparkles of gold and blue paint gave the place a typical oriental atmosphere and red paper lanterns dangled from the ceiling above each table, giving the place a soft and private atmosphere.

It was now past midnight and there were few customers in the restaurant. It was Thursday after all. But, despite the time, Sherlock and John were greeted with a smile and a bow and accompanied at their small table in the corner of the room. The window overlooked the road and John began to wonder if Sherlock was in the habit of keeping tabs on the outside every time he went to a restaurant or if, instead, only went to restaurants for stake outs.

"I don't go to restaurants only for stakeouts," said Sherlock suddenly from across the table, glancing through the menu offhandedly. John raised an eyebrow.

"How did you...?"

"I can read it in your face," replied Sherlock. "You looked at me and then at the window twice, probably wondering whether I was in the habit of sitting alongside windows and why, so I replied."

John had known him from a little less than 48 hours and Sherlock still left him flabbergasted every time he opened his mouth. "Fantastic," commented John, sincerely impressed.

Sherlock shrugged. "Easy." He appeared indifferent, save for a tiny quirk of the corner of his lips.

John understood in no time that the consulting detective had a penchant for compliments. And certainly John wasn't doing it only for fun but because he had the impression that Sherlock could understand exactly when a person was sincere or not – and not only by observing the classic signs of a lie, like eyes or non-verbal gestures; Sherlock could recognize a liar in their clothes and in their surroundings and a million other places, too. To deceive him would require a great liar, and John wasn't one. So John's compliments were sincere.

Sherlock had won him over within 24 hours, dragging him around London like a spinning top, making him see the hidden aspects of the city and its black blood veins under the skin of boredom that covered it.

His hand trembled no more, and his leg didn't ache. He wasn't feeling alone anymore, not now. Mycroft Holmes was right: with Sherlock, he could see the battlefield again and this seemed to make him well.

He wondered for a moment on who _really_ _was_ the more mentally disturbed of them.

He had gone to Baker Street in exasperation, out of courtesy. He would have looked at the apartment and, beautiful or not, refused with any excuse. He'd thought it was impossible for him, after all, to live with his SIN, or the person who almost certainly it would be. He'd needed years to come to terms with it, to shake off the resentment, and when it came down to the punch he hadn't managed it at all. Among the other things, Sherlock was opinionated, arrogant and decidedly self-centred, and John had no time for dealing with someone like Sherlock Holmes.

He'd entered Baker Street with the intention to refuse. He left it as different man with a new apartment, shared with an eccentric and brilliant flatmate that, never mind liking, he was supposed to hate enough to outshine his curiosity (but didn't, perhaps out of empathy) toward him.

John was screwed.

Upon arrival of the waitress Sherlock ordered Cantonese rice and lemon chicken, while John ordered spring rolls, rice noodles with vegetables and a plate of mushrooms and bamboo. The girl, young and smiling, nodded and headed into the kitchen with their orders.

Precisely when the silence began to be almost embarrassing, Sherlock took word.

"You're a BCE." His voice had the flat and quiet tone of someone who wasn't asking a question.

John jerked in surprise. He didn't think he'd be able to get away with it for too much longer but he'd hoped, due to the private nature of the topic, that potential arguments would be a sufficient deterrent. It seemed that for Sherlock Holmes, it wasn't.

John smirk bitterly, eyes low and settled on the table. "I was hoping we'd talk about the rent," he said.

"This is more interesting," Sherlock answered, watching him carefully.

"No. No, I don't think so," retorted John, harsh and suddenly on the defensive, a knee-jerk reaction that raised its hackles despite his attempts to moderate it. He made a concerted effort, however, to soften his speech. "I'd ask how you discovered it but the answer wouldn't surprise me."

Sherlock answered anyway, prompt as anything. "I saw the patch when you passed me your phone, yesterday at Bart's."

"It's not something anyone would notice."

"I'm not anyone." Sherlock looked over his shoulder into the street beyond before he continued. "Also, your reaction to my name intrigued me. This isn't the first time that's happened, but in these past hours I understood that it wasn't the usual type of reaction. Therefore I wondered why..." dropped Sherlock, implying without a doubt a question.

John lifted his eyes from the table and stared into Sherlock's blue-green ones. Depending on the light that struck them, those irises had different shades, but they never escaped their owner's control in reflecting his feelings. If Sherlock wanted them to express any sentiment, he would make it happen; if he wanted them to be cold and unfeeling, that's how they'd be read.

To John, they looked cold and unfeeling now.

"Why...?" It was the last defensive line of someone who had their back against a wall and just barely refused to give in to panic.

The corner of Sherlock's lips rose up before he talked again. "Do you really want to play this game with me?" he asked.

John raised his chin slightly. "Give me a direct question and you'll get a direct answer."

The other man seized the opportunity. "There's my name under that band-aid?" Sherlock asked, pointing at the silver ring in John's left ring finger.

John raised an eyebrow in the most puzzled expression in his arsenal. Holmes was an unbelievably skilled observer but John had lied about this from childhood, and surely that meant he could spout lies without batting an eyelid. Falsehood was an art that improved with time, after all.

"What?!" John exclaimed, smiling. It seemed to work, because Sherlock frowned. "No, absolutely not! What sane person in a situation like mine would live with his SIN?" He shook his head with a smirk. "Egocentric much?" He took a sip of water, hoping that Sherlock hadn't noticed the slight tremor of agitation in his hand.

Although not entirely convinced, Sherlock was definitely doubtful – always better than nothing. At least he'd stop asking questions for a while and perhaps even reconsider his idea. Maybe.

Any reply Sherlock was about to give was interrupted by the arrival of their orders. They stood silent while the waitress placed the dishes on the table – a moment that John used to calm down - and continued even after, during the first few mouthfuls.

John decided to break the silence by changing the subject. "Is it a problem, anyway?" he asked.

Sherlock looked up at him through a surprisingly delicate forkful of Chinese food. "What?"

"That I'm a Ribbon. For the flat, I mean." Certain things had better be unravelled immediately. If Sherlock would rather not have him around...

"No," Sherlock answered, as if the question itself had no reason to be asked. "If I had problems I would have distanced you first."

John nodded. "Right."

"John, I pay close attention to statistics about BCE. I can't say they aren't at least reasonably sound – it's undeniable that they are – but I don't like to generalize. I'm a Bondless after all."

The detective wasn't entirely wrong. If the Ribbons were discriminated against, the Bondless were closely-related subspecies, another example of Nature's crude humour. Sherlock was also a rather eccentric type so John supposed being a Bondless hadn't helped much in his life, either.

A smile escaped from John. "How can you know that I'm not dangerous?" he asked, although the tone was decidedly more relaxed.

Sherlock cleaned his mouth with a napkin. "A few hours ago. You didn't shoot until I was in immediate danger. You were waiting to see my reaction."

"Your thoughtless and idiotic reaction," John shot back.

"In either case," Sherlock skated over the comment with a wave of his hand, "the point is what it shows. You have a strong moral fibre, you've not killed until you've been obligated to. It's enough for me."

Watson giggled, incredulous. "And you base your assessment on the fact that I hesitated before killing a man rather than the fact that I actually killed him?" he asked, flabbergasted.

Holmes eyes swivelled. "You haven't hesitated, you've waited," specified Sherlock, "it's different. And it was... a great shot," he added.

John returned to his rice. "I assume this is a "thank you for saving my life"."

"Like I said, I had everything under control," retorted Sherlock, but John chuckled again. Behind all that pride and eccentricity and his lack of consideration for others' feelings, he glimpsed the man Sherlock Holmes really was, with all his flaws and strengths, a reflection that probably few others had glimpsed and that even John had barely scratched the surface of.

And he didn't dislike what he saw at all.

.o0o.

They returned to Baker Street a couple of hours before dawn.

From above London's skyscrapers, the night's black began to fade into feeble colours, brush strokes of pastel blue on the horizon and sprinkles of dark purple here and there. Sherlock expected it to be a good day.

As always after a case, the 72 hours of continuous vigil was taking its toll on his mind and the derived fatigue was beginning to burden him. It was not unlikely that he'd allow himself more than 10 hours sleep once the aftermath of the case – bureaucratic and non-bureaucratic – had been resolved.

They were gone from the crime scene before too many police patrols and journalists arrived. Dimmock was predictably in agreement that they didn't testify, so they jumped in a cab and returned home, making a quick detour to return Sarah home.

John found a free chair in the kitchen and sat on it. "Did I ever tell you how much I love this place? Especially after a long day of being held at gunpoint." The living room was still littered with containers upon containers of books, armchairs included. It'd take a whole afternoon to clean everything up and returning them to police.

Sherlock didn't comment, removing his coat and hanging it behind his bedroom's door. He shed the black jacket next and, heading calmly into the kitchen, rolled up the shirt's sleeves over his elbows.

"Turn that way," he ordered, pointing towards the table and pressing John to show him the side of his head.

John, taking a few moments to remember he _had _a head injury, made a vague gesture with his hand. "Don't worry," he dismissed easily, "it doesn't hurt anymore. I'll disinfect it before taking a shower."

But Sherlock refused to give up. "Turn that way," he repeated, this time gently grabbing John's chin with his fingers and forcing him to turn away. Watson couldn't help but obey (Holmes could be stubborn sometimes).

"I told you it's all right," John insisted.

"They knocked you out with the stock of a gun. You might have a concussion."

"I don't have a concussion, Sherlock," replied John calmly, but that didn't prevent Sherlock from observing the wound. "I'd have other symptoms as well, like nausea, which I don't have. It's just a little knock."

"Cut."

"What?"

"You got a _cut_ on your head," corrected Sherlock. "Stay here." He disappeared into his room.

When Sherlock returned carrying disinfectant, cotton wool and a brown leather case, he noted that John's eyes were fixed on the living room's window, still marked with Chinese numbers 1 and 15 in yellow paint.

The detective moved one of the remaining trays on the table from earlier that evening, placed the medical equipment on it and began to disinfect wound among John's hair.

"It'll take a whole bottle of turpentine to remove that paint, unless we change the glass," mumbled John, wrinkling his nose when Sherlock rubbed the disinfectant-soaked cotton ball across his bloody cut.

"I was thinking of leaving them like that, actually." Said Sherlock, too focused to sound ironic as he wanted.

"No, Sherlock," replied John immediately. "I won't leave a threat in Chinese on my living rooms windows."

"_Our_ living room. And technically it's a numeric code in dialectical ideograms that just happens to be a threat."

"It's a threat."

The corner of Sherlock's lips curled up.

Sherlock finished cleaning up the wound and the surrounding skin, placing the dirty cotton ball on the table and reaching for the brown box. By clicking the grapple he opened it, carefully selecting one of the glass bottles contained therein. He unscrewed the cap, plunged another piece of cotton wool – holding it with pliers this time – into the clear liquid it contained and, tapping lightly, began to wipe the wound.

"What kind of stuff is this?" asked the doctor, turning the small bottle in order to read the label. He jerked, pulling away from Sherlock's care. "Morphine?"

Sherlock sighed. "Stay still." He reached up again, pulling John's head in the same position as before.

"Morphine, Sherlock?" repeated the doctor, baffled.

Holmes sighed again. "I'm glad you can still real labels," he mocked absent-mindedly, all his attention focused on wetting John's skin as much as possible with the anaesthetic.

"Don't joke. If Lestrade finds this thing..."

"I stopped using it for recreational purposes years ago," Sherlock interrupted, well aware of what the doctor was getting to. After the last drug bust, John and Lestrade had agreed to keep an eye on him like two bad accomplices in an equally lousy felony. "However, if Lestrade finds this box, the morphine will be the last of my problems. Now, stay _still_." He stressed the last words.

A command which John promptly ignored. Rather, he leaned over to look at the contents of the beauty case.

"_Daphne cneorum_..." read John, carefully looking at each of the twenty small glass bottles, each sealed with cork caps and wax, in turn. Some had printed pharmaceutical labels, some had labels written in fine, neat handwriting. "_Ricinus communis, Datura stramonium_... _Digitalis purpurea_?!" He took a minute to observe the dark liquid inside the bottle against the light. "Sherlock, Digitalis is a poisonous plant!"

Sherlock, setting down the morphine-soaked cotton ball, began to disinfect a suture needle and its thread. "Yes," he replied calmly, "it is. So I suppose you don't want inadvertently drop the bottle."

John stared at him but then sighed, doubting that nothing could surprise him anymore. "They seem homemade," he observed.

"They are," confirmed Sherlock.

"Where did you get the plants for these? They don't even grow here."

"I had them sent to me." When John gave him a look, Sherlock added: "My adolescence was very boring. And now stay very still." He lifted the needle with its appropriate accessories for making a surgical suture.

John eyed the suture needle for a moment before he really stopped moving while Sherlock was working. "You even know how to stitch a wound," John said after a few minutes, to fill the silence.

"Evidently," Sherlock answered.

"How did you learn?"

"On corpses."

John wasn't surprised. "Molly?"

"University, actually," corrected Sherlock. Normally he wouldn't have added anything, but with John was different. He looked like a normal person but he had something in him that others had not.

John listened without judging. Perhaps that was the reason Sherlock continued to speak, offering something of himself to someone else on his own free will. "As sophomore I stole the key to the morgue from the Forensic Medicine associate. At night, I used to sew along the fingers and toes of cadavers that were used in class the next day." Sherlock heard John chuckle at that and, consequently, smiled.

"Poor teachers," commented John, amused.

"They were incompetent in any case," said Sherlock.

It was a unique situation. Something was different, perhaps, in the air or between them, he didn't know. Completely at ease, totally relaxed. A strange new feeling but pleasant, almost intoxicating. Sherlock knew other people – Lestrade, Mike, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Molly – but none were like John.

Even with Victor. Victor had touched and seen and tasted and claimed every inch of Sherlock's skin, his body, breathed his air. Victor had seen him stripped bare, not only naked but in situations of vulnerability and sub-par excellence, untied from reality and sanity. Victor owned him.

But Victor never had his mind, the key to understanding its secrets and its operation, one thing that John seemed to have simply taken without realizing. Perhaps John wasn't particularly intelligent, or acute, or cunning, but Sherlock was intellectually attracted to him in a way that he was at a loss to explain.

That wasn't to exempt John from asking completely the wrong question.

"Couldn't you find something a bit more ordinary to do? Hang out, find some girl or a boy? Maybe your Soulma–"

John froze mid-sentence, but too late. Sherlock, just finished tying the first stitch, stilled as well.

"Sorry," John said immediately, but Sherlock replied anyway.

"I never had the opportunity to devote myself to these _pastimes_." His reply was resentful, deliberately cruel, perhaps a little in spite. He conveniently left out the Victor Trevor affair (who was still, he assured himself, only a long term experiment).

As expected, John resented Sherlock's words. "I apologized. And in any case they're not pastimes, they're consensual relationship between two adults... it'd be normal. It _is_ normal. To only have sex with your Soulmate is archaic," John pointed out, slightly digressing.

"You don't have to excuse yourself with me for your relationships, John. I'm sure that Sarah as some good reasons to ignore the name she has on her finger." Sherlock's tone was harsh and he closed the second stitch too quickly.

"What makes you think that Sarah isn't my Soulmate?" asked John.

_Oh, for God's sake!_ Thought Sherlock before answering him. "What sort of sane person would be in a relationship with their SIN in a situation like yours?" he asked rhetorically, quoting almost literally what John had said that evening at the Chinese restaurant.

He heard John snap his jaw and grit his teeth. "Do you still think that the name on my finger is yours?" he asked then, clearly nervous and irritated.

Like in a mirror, John's anger made nervous Sherlock too. "If it's not true let me see." He replied.

The worst thing to say.

John stood up from the chair, taking two steps away and turning towards Sherlock. "No, Sherlock. It's private and none of your business!" he exclaimed, whetted upon a raw nerve. "But what do you know? What could you ever know about what is like to be like me? You've never had to begin the Search for someone you'll likely never find, and you never even cared about it! You never felt alone or abandoned, have you, Sherlock?" he asked loudly, making silence fall again only when he realized that Sherlock hadn't responded, but was watching him motionless and with a neutral expression.

They looked at each other for seemingly endless minutes, holding their gazes steady. Finally, John closed his eyes and sighed. "Listen, I'm tired. I... I didn't want to..."

"You're right." Sherlock interrupted him, never looking away, "it's all true. I'm a Bondless, which logically means that somewhere there might be a _BCE_ with my name on their finger, but I don't care. _I_ am the one who broke the Bond; according to logic, I'd have should done it for a reason. And if there's one person I trust in this world, it's me." He raised his chin. "So yes, John, you're right. All in all, I don't give a damn. I'm free more than you'll ever be." He left everything on the table and quickly brushed past John, heading toward the couch where he lay down.

John, still standing at the door, remained silent. Sherlock heard him swallow but didn't look at him, determined not to respond to whatever came from John's lips. Because there were different ways to feel alone and rejected, and John should have to know more than anyone else.

"I'm sorry..." whispered the doctor, his voice low, apologetic. "I'm going to sleep a couple of hours." He climbed the stairs in silence.

Sherlock didn't answer. He already knew that, come the next morning, they'd both turn a blind eye on it.

And it was the thing that upset him the most.

.o0o.

John awoke to a strong and unpleasant odour.

Chloroform. He recognized it before even opening his eyes.

Remembering what had happened wasn't difficult; the memories came on their own. He and Sherlock had just solved the missile projects case and retrieved the USB stick, and passed all the bomber's tests. He'd just walked out of 221B for Sarah's place when he was flanked by a pair of sturdy men at the entrance to Baker Street station. One of them passed a handkerchief over his nose, taking advantage of the crowd that came and went, then darkness. He vaguely remembered hearing the echo of a few words, seeing a policeman in uniform and the feeling of strong hands carrying him through the Underground under the guise of a sudden stroke –all the while thinking "fuck, it's not over yet" before he completely lost his senses.

Now, with a dull headache, slight nausea and the smell of chloroform still in his nose, John finally realized the trap he'd fallen into.

Without opening his eyes, he forced himself to stay calm, trying to shake off the effects of anaesthetic and sharpen his senses.

In addition to his heartbeat – accelerated due to the agitation, the doctor part of him said – he heard a few other noises. Breathing (quick, shallow, probably his own), a single set of footsteps in the distance, a roar like water but not running like a river, stationary. He was hot. His chest and back felt heavy – like the pack he carried equipment with in Afghanistan – and the air itself was humid and muggy. He sat with his hands tied behind his back, sure that the wooden slats under his fingers belonged to a bench. He could still smell nothing but chloroform's characteristically strong odour.

If Sherlock was there, he would likely be able to immediately deduce where they were. But, John reminded himself, Sherlock wasn't here and he had no idea of his whereabouts.

Slowly, struggling against the heaviness of his eyelids, John opened his eyes.

Bright blue, small tiles. They stretched across the floor and up the wall, painted white with grey stripes in some places, with scuffs where the tips of shoes had left marks. Wooden benches were lined up along the wall and across the room, black plastic hangers hanging on metal frames above all of them.

The revealing clue, though, was the second type of tile, white and rough, chiselled with rhomboid patterns that dispersed the blue ones – anti-slip tiles. Then, the smell of chlorine began to permeate the chloroform and like a trigger being pulled in his mind, John realised where he was.

He was in the locker room of a swimming pool.

He didn't need to raise his head completely for the person behind him, sitting on the other side of the double-sided bench, to notice he was awake.

"Rise and shine, Johnny-boy," sung the man in a high voice, a tone that John had already heard somewhere before (but just couldn't remember _where_).

John tried to stay calm. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice low and harsh.

The man chuckled. "Wouldn't you like to know?" he countered, before standing up and starting to walk back and forth, always behind John. "I'll keep it as a surprise for a while longer".

"Soon, your hands will be free, Johnny, but it seems fair to warn you beforehand. For technical reasons only, I daresay." He stopped pacing and tapped the heels of his shoes as though following a tune." Under your quilted jacket you're wearing a quantity of PE4 [2] enough to raze the entire building. As a military man, I'm sure you'll understand that one false move, one word off-script, and not even a single strand of DNA will remain of you." The man was cheerful, even while humming his threats.

John didn't have to lower his eyes to confirm the man's account: wires were sticking out from the collar next to his left ear and he felt the explosives distinctly against the chest.

John took a deep breath, which released trembling. "Why free my hands?" he asked then.

"Oh, you have to seem like a volunteer. I mean, I know that you'll be, of course. Anyone with the amount of explosives you're wearing would prefer to volunteer. But all the others were untied and willing, and I want Sherlock to see you so. I want him to doubt, for an instant, that behind all this there's you before he realizes that no, you're just another fool that's been captured like a moth with a neon light."

Suddenly, John felt a blade pass between his wrists and cut the plastic strap that bound them. He forced himself to lay his hands on his knees slowly.

"Good, little soldier," the other man teased, and stepped out in front of John. He smiled with a face anything but evil, and John felt a glimmer of recognition.

John frowned when he recognized him. "You're..."

"Jim from Bart's? Yes!" the man – Jim – exclaimed, hands in the pockets of the expensive suit he wore, including a silver tie-pin. "One of my best performances," he added, sitting in front of John and crossing his legs at the ankles. He watched John, smiling with closed lips for a time that felt infinitely than a few minutes.

Although John wouldn't admit it, a good portion of his concentration had slipped onto the explosives on his chest, so much that he'd trouble keeping a regular breathing pattern.

They stared one another in silence.

"Jim Moriarty." The man introduced himself, whispering his name as if it was a secret.

"Moriarty, right. Should have seen that coming," John replied.

Jim pretended a surprised expression. "The proximity to Sherlock Holmes is good for you, I suppose. Did you already tell him that you're his Soulmate?" asked Jim, never looking away, deeply amused.

John's eye were wide with surprise and they flew immediately to his own left ring finger. There, free from both the patch and the silver ring given to him by his mother years ago, Sherlock's name was pulsating with pain and dirty with blood.

When he raised his eyes, Jim was playing with John's silver ring, passing it from one finger to another one on his right hand.

John suppressed the temptation to lunge at him, as well as to scream against him. "If you think that Sherlock will accept the challenge..."

"Accept it? He _invited_ me," replied Moriarty immediately, almost thrilled at the idea. "He has the Bruce-Partington missile plans. He wants me to come out and play with him... and I'll satisfy his request." He moved to lie flat on his back on the bench, knees bent and crossed with one foot hanging out.

Jim's attention was still all on the ring and it was only when he held it firmly with both hands that John noticed the golden ring that Jim was wearing on his own left ring finger, underneath which was clearly visible a white patch.

A BCE. Like him.

Maybe he should have expected it.

"So, how did Sherlock react?" pressed Jim, waving his foot and trying John's ring on all ten of his fingers to see which one it'd fit best.

John wrinkled his nose. "You really talk too much for someone who borrows other people voices.

Moriarty snorted. "I'm bored," he complained. "I took a free night to play with Sherlock, but he's not yet arrived and I've nothing to do."

"Stop talking as if you know him." John couldn't contain himself.

James, arching the eyebrows, returned to watch him. "You think you know him better than me!" he remarked, looking frankly surprised.

"I live with him."

"Irrelevant."

"We're _friends_."

"Yet he waited for you to be out of the house before inviting me to play with him, leaving you blissfully unaware of everything. What do you think he did it for? To protect you?" he asked, frowning when a thought struck him.

Jim turned on his side, scrutinizing John from head to toe. "Who are you, John Watson, for having Sherlock's name on your finger? What use are you?" he wondered rhetorically. "So ordinary as to be sent home from the Army, so naive to fall into elemental traps like this one, so mediocre that you have to hide your being a Ribbon... I'm very, very disappointed by your level of uselessness, and if there's one thing that haunts me it's wondering how someone like you expects to be Sherlock Holmes' Soulmate."

John bore Moriarty's words in silence, watching him as the man placed his ring on the ground, balancing it so that it stood upright, and observed it thoughtfully. "I'd like to have his name on my finger in your place..." Jim kicked the silver ring slightly, making it roll up to lightly impact John's shoe.

John swallowed, closing his eyes overwhelmed by powerlessness. He sighed heavily, then returned to watching Jim. "That's useless for me, anyway. You may actually have a chance," he joked bitterly.

Jim glared at him for a moment. Then he laughed, exposing his white, perfect teeth.

"I have already taken what belong to me, Johnny-boy," he said, without explain further.

A _beep_ from the room adjacent to the locker room broke the tension and the silence. Jim looked beyond the door, further than John's line of vision would allow him to see. "Seb?" he called.

"He's here," confirmed a deep voice from the hallway.

Moriarty smiled smugly. "Raise the curtains!" he exulted, ready to go. "Put your ring on and follow the instructions that I give you very carefully. One wrong word and..." He winked. "Well, I suppose you know how it'll end."

John fought the extra weight of the explosives and just managed to hide the name "Sherlock" under his silver ring before the earpiece crackled the first order in his ear.

.o.

They had to call Lestrade.

They couldn't just leave plastic explosives on the edge of a public swimming pool, so the Detective Inspector had to pull the bomb disposal unit from their beds to secure the PE4 blocks that had been strapped to John not an hour before.

In the meantime, of course, Lestrade took account of all that had happened. Mycroft also arrived and Sherlock found the situation transitioning from dull to downright annoying. He shut down any conversation with Mycroft and the Yarder without delay and, nodding for John to follow him, went briskly to the main road to hail a cab.

During the ride to Baker Street, John (predictably) begun to suffer the effects of the inhalation of chloroform. He'd tried to talk on the phone with Sarah but it was clear that he was failing to follow the conversation; from the way he massaged his left temple, it looked like he had a headache; Sherlock noticed several times where John's head started to droop onto his chest in bouts of uncontrollable drowsiness.

He hadn't meant to involve John – that's why he waited. Not only that, John would have probably complained about his plan, trying to persuade him to _stop immediately_, to deliver the Bruce-Partington plans to Mycroft and let Moriarty go... and he simply _couldn't_ do it.

Sherlock couldn't ignore Moriarty.

James Moriarty was a rare pearl. An individual of strong intelligence and cunningness; he played a wonderful game, a succulent occasion, and it was Moriarty himself that wanted to play. It didn't matter about the threatening, that wasn't really the purpose.

They courted each other for months, looking for traces and clues. Sherlock simply had to meet him, drive him out, invite him to the banquet to see his opponent and study him, to link a face to the name croaked by a dying man. That moment resonated through the high vaults of Sherlock's mind, and he couldn't escape it.

He'd hoped that Moriarty would ignore John. That he'd focus only on him.

A vain hope.

"Here we are." The driver interrupted his thoughts as the cab slowed and stopped in front of the familiar, dark door.

Sherlock lifted his eyes to the rear view mirror, used his credit card to pay and turned to John.

"John," he called, shaking the sleeping man awake. "We're home."

Watson groaned in weariness and snorted, struggling to keep his eyes fully open. He managed to mumble a "thank you" to the driver and stumble out the car door behind Sherlock who went ahead to unlock 221B's door. The consulting detective held the door to allow his friend to enter, and John thanked him with a grunt, grabbing the handrail and beginning to slowly climb the stairs. Sherlock followed him.

They hadn't yet talked about what happened and he knew John would definitely want to sooner or later. Sherlock had almost expected to hear him begin the sermon on the cab ride home, or just after leaving Mycroft and Lestrade. But it didn't happen.

Spending the evening in close contact with explosives, he supposed, would dampen any desire for more serious conversation than necessary. Exhaustion did that; he wasn't too surprised.

However, leaving things as they were unsettled him. Sherlock didn't know how to explain the reaction he swiftly silenced and buried deep in his chest, but the tired silence of John dragging himself upstairs disturbed Sherlock in ways he never would have imagined feeling. Not Moriarty, not the danger or the adrenaline. Not the fear that he felt seeing John at gunpoint or the cold moment of doubt at the thought that John _was _Moriarty. Simply the silence.

"John..." Sherlock began, but John held up a hand.

"Tomorrow, Sherlock." John interrupted. "I just want to sleep. Lie down and sleep..." He trailed off, too worn out to even make the last flight of stairs to his room. Instead, he made a beeline for the couch and, without taking off his jacket, he threw himself on his back.

Sherlock sunk into the armchair after throwing the coat over the union flag pillow. The room was lit only by the light from the street lamp that seeped through the window. Neither them nor Mrs. Hudson had lit the fireplace that evening, so the temperature of the room was considerably lower than usual.

Bringing his hands together under his chin, Sherlock meditated.

Moriarty wasn't incompetent. Sherlock already realized that he had means and opportunities to do whatever he pleased, that he had fingers in the pies of several major criminal organizations, not to mention being a criminal organization in and of himself. Sherlock had already realized all this. But looking directly at the man... oh, the sight of him seemed to project even more.

Something indecently attractive. Cunning, nerve, conceit.

From the first to the last minute, Jim had them both in the palm of his hand, control never waivering, but even when it was no longer so, even when Sherlock had reversed the situation and threatened blow them up without distinctions, Moriarty hadn't been perturbed. And not because he thought that Sherlock hadn't the courage to actually do it.

"He's a complicated opponent, John." Sherlock couldn't help but comment, the urgent need to have an audience that was shrivelling up his innards. "Fearsome. He likes to stand on thin ice, and if it involves death, all the better. His or others', it doesn't matter. This makes him a person ready to do anything. He has endless possibilities ahead of him."

"Mh..." was John's only answer, his eyes closed and arms folded across his abdomen.

"It's a complicated situation, making it difficult to predict the next move. But I think I can recognize the signs, the schemes. He'll make the first move and we need to be ready to respond. This is a chess game, and we need to have our strategy ready."

When he didn't receive a reply, his eyes flickered onto John.

He was fast asleep. His eyes weren't moving under his eyelids – he hadn't yet reached the REM phase – but his breathing was deep and regular and the expression was relaxed. The chloroform and the peak of adrenaline had emptied him of his energy, not to mention the past few days spent following him around on the case. Too many events for that night.

Sherlock, lowering his hands, observed him.

He couldn't avoid considering John as an essential part of his present. He couldn't avoid wanting to protect him, in his own way, wanting to preserve him. He wanted to be Moriarty's only opponent, in good part due to his own selfishness, but what remained was for John.

A sense of belonging meant having John beside him. A place to call "home" and someone to come back to. These were things he'd always had but that he never really owned or needed, not voluntarily, but now..: Between the gentle hands of a cobbled-together soldier who had the courage and intelligence, in his own way, to try and go on living.

Since John Watson had appeared in his life, quietly and by pure chance, Sherlock understood what it meant to have a friend and the effort it involved. And it was all confusing, complicated.

Sometimes he questioned himself. His father had taught him this trick. "Sherlock," he'd told him one day, "you're intelligent, but some day you'll encounter things you won't completely understand, not immediately. Asking yourself questions helps to find answers."

Sherlock asked himself if John was worth protecting, and the answer was of course "yes". He asked himself why he wanted to do it, and the answer was "because he's my friend". He asked himself if "friends" was a enough word.

He hadn't been able to answer.

There were too many variables, too many consequences for every action, too many words. Every move included dozens of different scenarios, and usually he could sort and discriminate between them but this time he had doubts, indecisions, things that didn't have the courage to say and actions that he didn't quite have the will to accomplish.

Caring for others was a gyp from start to finish. And he couldn't prevent it.

It was while watching John sleep that his attention was drawn to the silvery gleam of the ring on John's ring finger.

A Bond. A Soulmate. Sherlock had stopped worrying about those things ad a child, when it was clear that he would never have anyone to call his, aware that there would be no one waiting for him at the end of the Search and that nobody was searching for him return.

Sherlock's finger had never hosted any kind of rings or names of sorts. The skin had been candid and immaculate; no letters had ever dirtied it.

Oh, there had been a time when Sherlock wanted it, yes. With all his heart. Twice in his life he'd given up and prayed to a God he'd never believed in to make something appear on that finger, even just a shadow. Any shadow. The first time, the shadow was named "Victor"; the second, he had deleted its memory from his hard drive.

A shadow named "John".

Staring at the doctor's hand illuminated by the whitish light coming from the window, he scowled an unfair but tempting thought.

Even if John denied it, he was hiding something.

It was a niggling, continuous whisper in the back of his mind that kept tempting him, teasing him.

_Is there my name under that ring?_

Logic said that it was. John was a BCE, Sherlock a Bondless. The common interpretation wanted the Bondless to be those who'd rejected the Bond, in some previous life, and that the BCE where those bearing the consequences; they were those who hadn't had the opportunity to choose, those who had been abandoned by those who should represent the exact half of their soul and whole being, and the physical pain of a never-closing injury was believed to be the tip of the iceberg of a bigger, interior wound.

According to this interpretation, and admitting that Sherlock had the will to believe in it, he had been the one to sever the Bond with John.

_Why?_

Sherlock didn't know. He couldn't understand. The only certain thing was that John was lying.

John moved the fingers of the left hand in his sleep. There was only one way to find out. To be sure. John would never let him see it voluntarily. But now John was asleep, exhausted and wouldn't readily wake up.

Sherlock slid from the armchair and crept across the floor on his knees towards the couch, quietly nearing the doctor's hand. He gently slipped his right hand under John's left one, barely touching the skin of the palm, to rest his finger on John's wrist. The doctor's heartbeat was calm and regular against Sherlock's fingers, quiet as his breathing, and he gave no sign of noticing the detective's proximity.

If they were Soulmates, thought Sherlock, and that was their first, real contact, the Bond would be activated. Nobody could really explain the sensation they experienced and it happened only once in one's lifetime; many said that descriptions in books didn't do justice to the real thing.

As a child, Sherlock had wished for that experience more than anything, and hope had turned its back on him.

Holding John's hand as if it were a particularly instable chemical compound, Sherlock touched the silver ring gently. He hesitated only a moment before starting to pull it over the knuckle and remove it entirely.

It slipped from the finger easily, and he saw.

It was dirty, covered in coagulated blood, the skin around the letters red and swollen, but it was there. Undeniable as the rain, as the sun. John could hide it behind lies and patches but he couldn't erase it, it couldn't disappear.

On top of the ring finger, the name "Sherlock" stared at him, making him feel guilty.

Sherlock gritted his teeth, holding his breath. He seared that last image into his mind, then put the ring back in its place covering the name so that John would be unaware of what he had done.

With a sigh, Sherlock sat on the floor with his back toward the couch. He closed his eyes, concentrating on his own breathing and putting his thoughts in order.

He was waiting for the feeling of success, the feeling of knowing he was right, to set in. But it didn't, and all he could think of was John. John, who shouldn't have had to feel like alone and rejected all his life. John didn't deserve what Sherlock had put him through, even if Sherlock didn't remember why or when he'd done it, or how many lifetimes before.

He was asking questions of himself that he could never answer.

A movement behind him caught his attention; John turned on his side with a weary sigh, and ran the tongue between the lips.

"Sherlock?" he muttered, his eyes closed and still a victim of sleep. "Everything okay?" asked.

Sherlock smiled slightly. Physically, he was fine and John knew it. But the doctor was disorientated and confused, too tired to really pay attention to what he was saying.

"Obviously." Sherlock answered, taking the doctor's hand in his own.  
"It's all right," he whispered softly. "Rest now."

.o0o.

"I hope you didn't mess up my sock index this time."

John heard Sherlock's bedroom door closing, and then silence embraced the flat again. The fire was still crackling in the fireplace, spilling warm light into the sitting room, in stark contrast with the snow still falling outside.

It had been a nice evening. He knew people who'd pay to spend a Christmas Eve like that, with friends and sparkling wine, gifts and a joyous atmosphere. It was the first time since he was a young man that he felt do peaceful, so... at home.

But, of course, someone had to ruin everything.

John hadn't even noticed that red package on the fireplace (but Sherlock had). He hadn't figured out the meaning of it (but Sherlock had). He had even forgotten about those pesky messages Sherlock had received (but Sherlock hadn't).

And then, as usual, it happened all too quickly. With a phone call to Mycroft, Sherlock took his coat and left (alone). Then Mycroft himself phoned John, ordering him to scour the detective's room for cocaine, because if he was right and they had indeed found Irene Adler's corpse, it could be a "bad night".

A bland euphemism to describe the worry that Sherlock might resort to drugs.

_And all because of Irene Adler. The Bondless Irene Adler._

John was the jealous type. Yes, he could control himself, pretend he didn't care, smile and pretend complicity, but that didn't change anything. They were just masks, occasions, catch-phrases. Folding screens he hid behind so he wouldn't arouse suspicious in Sherlock and the rest of the world.

A strange equilibrium had settled between them since the Adler case started.

Things unsaid, things left to intuition, things completely kept quiet. Questions that John asked and Sherlock didn't answer, silence, closed doors. He was accustomed to the consulting detective's strange behaviours, his spikes of anger and his days of complete silence, but not this. This was different.

Sherlock cared about her. _Her_. The woman who had managed to screw Sherlock over and continued to play with him. Like a peacock showing off. Like a siren with the finest voice whose sole purpose was to hold him close and eat his heart. He seemed to care about her, _Sherlock_ did, the man who hadn't cared about anyone in his life. The man who had a place in his heart for not even John, only himself. John should have had the right to a place there. He had Sherlock's _name_ carved into his flesh, and it bled and throbbed and made him an outcast. Surely after all that, he deserved a place in Sherlock's heart?

John hated them. Sherlock and Irene both, but Irene more. They were thoughts John was ashamed of and kept to himself until he was alone, where he could afford to remove the filters and analyze, discard and dispose of the dangerous considerations.

If he could somehow shrug off the urge to tell Sherlock the truth…If he could get rid of that thought, maybe he could tempt a miracle.

John closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, and tried to swallow the knot that had formed in his throat (unsuccessfully).

He couldn't care less about Sarah or Jeanette. He was going out with women who'd lost their Soulmates, or had never found them, and each of those affairs were based on the same, infamous lie: that he too didn't have a Soulmate anymore due to an accident, or that he never met them and was tired of waiting, or that he didn't believe in SINs to begin with. They all nodded, pleased that a kind, fun man like John Watson didn't believe that someone, somewhere, was waiting for him.

They never knew that he had already found that someone, and yet it was still a lost cause.

Opening his eyes, John observed his left hand, resting in a clenched fist on the cover of the book he'd been reading as he waited for Sherlock to return from the morgue.

He opened his fingers, pulled off the silver ring and began to remove the patch.

And there it was. "Sherlock" engraved into the skin. His bloody, painful little secret he feared he'd already revealed. The impossible dream at the bottom of a drawer.

He couldn't hate Sherlock, in the end. He simply couldn't do it. So brilliant, so eccentric, so fascinating, both mentally and physically. Far from being the ideal, perfect man but he was the right person for him, John knew, he felt it.

The trust that John had given to him right away, although he knew who Sherlock was and what he represented, was a symptom of the undeniable fact that he cared about Sherlock. John wanted him despite everything, regardless of the fact that Fate said "no".

But going on to repeat to himself "he's mine" didn't make sense, now. In the best-case scenario, Sherlock belonged to Irene Adler. After all, he could. He was a Bondless and Irene was too.

And John Watson would smile, happy for them both – happy for Sherlock. John could easily pretend – he'd had plenty of practice.

Moriarty's voice resounded in his mind: "who are you to have Sherlock's name on your finger?"

He swallowed, placing the ring on the coffee table beside the armchair and reopened the book where he'd stopped reading. He read the first phrase past the title page, and a bitter smile curved his lips.

"_My only love sprung from my only hate; too early unknown and known too late."_ [3]

.o0o.

Sleepless nights were nothing new to John.

He'd endured them on countless occasions: due to fever and pain in his hand or having to tend to yet another of his sister's hangovers, or spending the night hanging out with his friends or bent over a book at university. During the war, he slept only one or two consecutive hours for days on end. Back home, nightmares kept him awake.

Since he'd met Sherlock, however, the consulting detective had become the source of John's sleeplessness. Riddles in yellow paint on isolated walls alongside the Overground's tracks, reckless running around London's streets at night, a violin being played too late (or too early), Sherlock's need for a midnight sounding board…the list went on.

However, tonight was different.

The room in the Dartmoor hotel was small but comfortable and welcoming. Not exceptional, but at least clean; it had a single bed, a bedside table, curtains and carpets well dusted, clean sheets, TV and a lovely view of the rural village. And silent like only the countryside could be. As far as trips away from home went, Henry Knight's case had brought them the perfect one.

John was tired. In a single day, he'd explored a high-tech top-secret base (for the second time after illegally infiltrating it yesterday), he'd been drugged, scared to death by a huge beast (real or imaginary, at the time he didn't know or care), co-discovered a secret project and caught its culprit, been drugged again and finally seen said culprit explode in a minefield. That excluded the statement he had to give the local law enforcement, since Sherlock had seemingly made a pointed effort to insult half of the Army Corps, and taking Henry, disturbed and in shock, home.

He couldn't _not_ be tired.

_So why he couldn't sleep?_

It was three o'clock in the morning and John, in pajamas and socks, was flipping through channels of crap telly, leaning with his back against the bed's headboard. After circling the channels a couple of times, he found old reruns of the third season of Doctor Who and he resigned to watching it, waiting only for his well-deserved rest to come. His ring lay on the bedside table; he'd removed it as he did every time the early symptoms of an infection appeared (He hoped he hadn't contracted anything in Baskerville. To be honest, he didn't want his finger to glow in the dark) and periodically rubbed antiseptic into the inflamed skin.

A knock at the door startled him. John held his breath in anticipation, wondering if he could expect more of the sounds that sounded like firecrackers against the silence of the night. His first thought was that the television had bothered someone, but the volume was so low that even John found it hard to follow the dialogue, so only one option remained.

"I know you're still awake, I can see the lamp light from under the door."

Sherlock.

John sighed, rubbing his eyes with his right thumb and index finger. He quickly recovered his ring, sliding it over the partially-absorbed cream and reluctantly crawling out of bed to open the door.

Sherlock was also in pajamas – which, in his case, consisted of a pair of grey tracksuit's trousers and a blue t-shirt – and his ruffled hair suggested that he too had turned over and over in bed without sleeping.

"What is it?" asked John.

"May I come in?" requested Sherlock.

"Why? I seemed to understand that you don't have friends." John did his best to keep an air of fake offense.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "How many more times do we have to go over this? I've apologized already."

"You began, but you never finished," retorted John, unable to help a close-lipped chuckle, to which Holmes shook his head.

"Yes, I did."

John closed the door behind Sherlock and went back to sit on the bed. Sherlock soon joined him.

John was still amazed at how natural this had become for them: going to each other, sitting down together to watch television, eating breakfast together every morning. They never officially agreed to it, never established any rules, but they did those things anyway. It felt like home.

The room fell into a comfortable silence.

The bed was small, so as their shoulders touched, as well as their arms, hips and legs, separated only at the ankles which Sherlock had crossed, but neither seemed to be annoyed by it.

It was a strange atmosphere, a bit like a parallel dimension in which they ended up without realizing it. A feeling like staying in precarious balance, as if the day was scaled not by hours, but by sleep; as if the hour before sleep was the last chance to make mistakes you'd regret and by morning, you were only judged by the sunlight. As if you could make reckless mistakes and delete them all with a night's sleep and pretend nothing ever happened. As if sleep would delete the reality by turning it into a dream that could be quietly forgotten.

That's why John took the liberty to look at him.

Sherlock's thin chest was rising and falling to regular rhythm under his shirt, his entwined fingers resting on his stomach with no ring to cover a ring finger with no name on it. All of Sherlock was particularly unique, but that was nothing like his face. High cheekbones with sharp profile, thick black eyebrows to match his eyelashes and curly hair that never really was in order. Thin and pale lips. Eyes of a colour that changed with the light.

Sherlock Holmes was carrying a beauty that couldn't be immediately understood, but that matured with time. A beauty that was part of his impossible character and his boundless intelligence.

It was a beauty that John hadn't had problems unashamedly absorbing in its entirety, even when Sherlock noticed his gaze and turned to look at John.

Their gazes met and, even if John's first instinct was to look away, he didn't. He kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock's, in that moment of a deep blue, the only thing he could feel within himself that continuing to look at him that way was the most right thing in the world. Sherlock didn't speak, saying everything his needed to with his eyes. They moved closer, as a matter of need rather than anything programmed or calculated. It simply happened. By chance or instinct, they reached one another, enough for John to feel Sherlock's slight breath on his cheek.

It was Sherlock who lowered his eyes first, sliding his gaze along John's left arm up to the silver ring. John felt the intensity as keenly on his skin as if it'd been tangible, like a caress, or the trickle of a water drop. John followed Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock placed his fingers on the back of John's left hand as if he were touching the bow of his violin; they slipped from the wrist to the knuckles in complete silence, brushing the metal band that covered John's SIN with the tip of his middle finger. No force, no pressure.

But after a few moments, perhaps justified by John's silence, Sherlock placed his fingers around the ring and began to remove it.

John held his breath. "No..." he whispered, tensing.

"Yes," replied Sherlock, the voice only a whisper, "yes."

They were close enough now to hear each other's heartbeat. John closed his eyes as Sherlock took off the ring, as intimate as if Sherlock was stripping him naked, undressing him one button at time. John leaned his forehead against the black curls that fell across Sherlock's own, his mouth ajar in trembling breaths.

John felt it slip away, but couldn't open his eyes to observe Sherlock's reaction. Suspended in an endless second of visceral terror, he waited.

Sherlock pressed the tip of his index finger against the name. Once, twice, three times, making the skin burn in many ways, none of which was healthy. The touch was delicate and somehow kind, as though Sherlock was trying to cure it. To apologize.

_He didn't understand how painful it was._

"Please, no..." whined John, desperate, eyes tightly closed and breath drifted, hidden from view as if not seeing what was happening could make it less real.

But Sherlock slid his fingers between John's and lifted his chin a bit, causing their noses to touch. The doctor felt Sherlock's lips brush his skin as he repeated, "yes, John."

John let Sherlock's proximity get him drunk. The doctor sighed before approaching further and touching his lips to Sherlock's temple in a trembling, chaste kiss, uncertain, with his lips barely touching the skin.

Sherlock held his breath and, tilting his face, kissed John's cheek. Just as insecure as John's own, it was sweet an inexperienced, like it wasn't given by the world's only consulting detective who believed in the head over the heart, who had arch enemies and allies instead of friends.

John, just as gently, kissed Sherlock's cheekbone; Sherlock kissed his jaw. John kissed the tip of his nose; Sherlock kissed his chin.

Joining their lips was just the next step that neither thought about, that neither even noticed until after it had occurred and their lips were already resting together.

Their first kiss was chaste and short, almost accidental; the second was the same, a simple meeting of lips like evidence of their discovery. The third deepened, tongues dipping past lips, tasting. The fourth deepened still, reciprocal searching.

They stayed like that throughout the night, laid out on the bed facing each other, divided if not for their folded hands and joined mouths. Floating between the gaps of silence, on the verge of an ephemeral lethargy, they explored each another's lips until they were too tired to move. Then, they fell asleep, lips still lightly touching.

.o.

When morning came, John woke up alone.

The sun had really turned reality into a dream, and in Sherlock's absence he felt it slipping away more acutely. For an instant, he doubted that it was real, but the ring left on the blankets and the taste of Sherlock on his lips told him the truth.

But what happened between them, what had been discovered, was part of a night locked in a parentheses, and wouldn't be repeated: John read it in Sherlock's eyes when they met in the hall before breakfast and, not knowing what else to do, he accepted the _status quo_ without saying a word.

Life continued as though nothing had happened.

.o0o.

In the following months there was no more time to talk. Moriarty returned into their lives to the tune of Rossini's _Thieving Magpie_. [4]

It was a perfect score that Sherlock would only be able to understand later, when a perverse and well-oiled machine, an intricate set of cogs and gears, had already been set in motion and there wasn't a chance of stopping it.

His whole life was now part of Moriarty's game and the only thing Sherlock wondered, the only thing he could think of when his mind didn't go around in circles repeating every word his antagonist had said, was why Moriarty hadn't yet involved John. It was something Sherlock didn't understand.

And he still didn't know if it was important, or by how much.

.o.

"He'll be deciding."

"Deciding?"

"Whether to come back with a warrant and arrest me."

John looked away from the window while the car carrying Lestrade and Donovan left Baker Street. "You think?"

"Standard procedure."

"You should've gone with him," said John, smacking his lips. "People will think..."

"I don't care what people think."

"You'd care," continued John, "if they thought you were stupid or wrong."

"No, that would just make them stupid or wrong," Sherlock immediately contradicted.

"Sherlock, I don't want the world believing you are..." He stopped.

The detective looked up from the computer screen, already well aware of what John wanted to say and possibly already knowing how the conversation itself would end.

"That I am what?" Sherlock asked after a moment.

John swallowed. "A fraud."

Sherlock sighed, leaning back on the chair. "You're worried they're right."

"What?"

"You're worried they're right about me."

"No."

"That's why you're upset, you can't even entertain the possibility that they might be right, you're afraid that you've been taken in as well."

"No, I'm not."

"Moriarty is playing with your mind too. Can't you see what's going on?!" Sherlock snapped, banging his fist on the desk.

John looked again at him, watching him seriously, before returning with his eyes at the road out of the window. "No, I know you for real."

"A hundred percent?"

"Yes."

"You're saying it because you feel obligated?"

John hesitated at those words, thumbing the silver ring that covered Sherlock's name. When he turned back to Sherlock, he was just as resolute as he'd been at the start of the conversation: that he'd believe his friend because he wanted to, not because a name ordered him to do so.

"Nobody could fake being such an annoying dick all the time."

.o.

Finding Kitty Riley's address was easy – as simple as consulting the telephone directory – and Sherlock's ability to open locks using a credit card went far enough to get them inside without a key.

They waited in complete darkness and silence, sitting on the small couch next to the front door, waiting in for the journalist to return home. No other noise could be heard except for their breath and, sometimes, the clink of the handcuffs when one of them tapped fingertips on their knee.

Sherlock was completely lost in his own thoughts. John could almost hear the mechanism of his superhuman mind turn and stuck fast-paced, excluding everything that wasn't important, cutting off the rest of the world.

Closing his eyes in the dark, John sighed. In the last couple of hours he had chinned a senior Scotland Yard officer, he'd been arrested, handcuffed, officially become a fugitive and run off hand-in-hand with Sherlock to ambush a person he'd never met, only because Sherlock had seen a clue of sorts somewhere and thought that the journalist clarify some things that didn't add up.

John wondered who was crazier: the fool or the fool who followed him.

"Are you still mad?"

Sherlock's question suddenly broke the silence, distracting John from his own thoughts.

"I should be," replied the doctor after a brief sigh.

"Does that mean you're not?"

"No, I'm not."

"You should be."

"I know."

Silence again. Expectations became increasingly high when one didn't have anything to do or was handcuffed to another person with a few inches of chain the maximum amount of movement available, and so it was for them too. They'd entered the apartment less than thirty minutes ago but already seemed hours had passed.

It was Sherlock who started talking again. "John?"

"Mh?"

But he didn't continue. Sherlock remained completely motionless, breathing quietly. He only gave a light rustle when he shook his head (or so Watson deduced). "Nothing."

In total darkness, sight was useless – keeping his eyes open or closed was pretty much the same thing – so John turned his head to the right, where Sherlock sat. He wet his dry lips with his tongue and, handcuffs rattling, stretched out his hand to take the detective's.

He didn't wonder whether it was right or wrong, or if the timing was correct. He didn't ask himself why he wanted to do it because he'd an unpleasant feeling in the bottom of his stomach that didn't want to leave him in peace.

Maybe Sherlock was losing himself.

Surprisingly – or perhaps not – Sherlock didn't withdraw at the touch nor reject it. He intertwined their fingers in a slight but steady clinch.

John smiled.

"I would have liked it," murmured Holmes out of nowhere.

"What?" asked John.

In response, Sherlock moved his thumb in search of John's ring finger, which stroked softly, once. "I would've liked it," he repeated then.

And John realized what he wanted to say.

"Me too, Sherlock," he replied. "A lot."

_We can still do this_, John thought. _We can go ahead anyway; spend our life together as if I were still yours and you hadn't ever stopped being mine._

_We have all the time of the world._

.o0o.

You watch him from up there and you wonder how much he will suffer.

If he'll understand.

If he'll ask himself why.

If he'll investigate.

If he'll remember even if it hurts.

If he'll forget for his own good.

Everything is prepared. It's all a trick, magic.

You won't hurt yourself (not really).

You won't die (not really).

You won't fall, not really. Never.

Moriarty drove you on the edge of the abyss but made the mistake of jumping first.

It still remains a bitter taste in your mouth. You still can't figure out if you've won or lost your personal battle with the dark side of yourself, with the opponent that kept your imagination alive.

You'd waited someone like him for all your life.

But there, standing on top with the taste of neither victory nor defeat, you wonder if it was really Moriarty the one you expected so ardently.

Because there's someone, down there, that makes you doubt.

You really wanted this to be easier.

You watch him from up there and you already know that he'll suffer.

That he won't understand.

That he'll wonder why everyday but he won't investigate.

That he won't remember through the hurt.

That, finally, he'll decide to forget for his own good.

You watch him from up there and you wonder if, at the end of everything, he'll still be there.

"_Goodbye John."_

"_Sherlock!"_

* * *

[1] It really exists.  
[2] PE4 is a plastic explosive similar to C-4. In UK it's more common.  
[3] William Shakespeare, _Romeo and Juliet_  
[4] _The Thieving Magpie_ by Gioacchino Rossini is Moriarty's soundtrack during the Tower of London scene.


End file.
